Every Single Time

where hope dangles from
the last strand of a battered thread,
when fear trumps belief,
and hope is all but lost,
he appears in unseen, unexpected ways,
breathing life into hope, 
breathing hope into life.
every single time

when living stops, 
and existence begins, 
when the guilt of karma 
weighs one down, 
when fear of loss is heavier
than the tallest of the mountains,
when breath becomes short,
and strength vanishes from the knees,
strange are his ways, 
he ushers blessings into the impossible
and ushers the impossible into blessings,
every single time

when the wounds are deep, 
and the pains, 
overflowing and overwhelming, 
when sleep fails, 
and tears flow like a gusty flood,
and prayers are relentless, 
he steps out of the stone,
and the wood,
scripts the unbelievable, 
weaves the surreal,
blessing miracles through healing,
blessing healing through miracles,
every single time

when hope is battered 
by storms,
and belief and faith and trust
by tsunamis,
when healings and memories,
face the peril of being washed away, 
he showers his melting,
and wields his pen, 
and scripts the game, yet again,
to finally toss the sunshine off the waves,
and wave the sunshine back to life,
to spring life into the wood,
and to spring life from the woods,
to add life to years, 
and to add years to life!
every. single. time.



© sashikant mohanty

Shades of Silence

silence means consent,

but it also reminds of deceit,

it is the language of submission,

of prayers, of spirituality,
and of being one with god,

was it also not the language of crooked,

the inept, the corrupt and the crafty?

if silence heals wounds that words can't

it also inflicts irreparable blows,

if silence is the language
that draws together lovebirds,

silence is also the last straw
between soulmates

if silence of winter nights is the stage,

decked with memories galore,

that play, and replay fond stories,

from both distant past, and near, 

and make warm tears roll,

the silence of still dark nights 

is also the altar,

where the angst, the nightmares, 

and the unkindest cut on the soul,

come alive from the rubble,

play, rewind and replay a hundred times,

but my soul is too dead to cry today 

​silence is powerful,

and yet the weapon of cowards,

in silence, the wise wear their prudence,

yet it's shades of silence,

that are the fools' best friends,

silence signals resignation, withdrawal,

and end of life,

yet, silence is also a lie,

when the least you could,
was to say an "aye"

unshaken and unconditional silence

could beat the scariest tsunamis,

and force the storms,
your fears and tears, to trace back,

but, in this race
where
one's virtue is the other's vice,
can silence, 

ever be the answer 

to a zillion unsolved puzzles?

© sashikant mohanty