ray_chahal

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  • ray_chahal 4w

    Twilight

    ©ray_chahal

    You have always loved the color red
    Just like a beauty that, for sport, kills a beast,
    But I admire the coolness of the color blue
    And write poems, that make you smile and weep.
    Unlike you, I have learnt to live my life carelessly
    And to the advise of wise- I never tend to heed,
    Another grave matter is with my stupid heart now
    It never listens at all- to what I have to say.
    I only want to certain it's peace and safety,
    But it only wants to become your prey.
    A blooded regretful journey might be next
    To it's obstinate infinite desires-
    Forever, where it would be smoldered
    My love! You are such a magnificent fire.
    But, I shall have you in this world or maybe next,
    Baby, such desperate are my desires.
    I know that it's beats; it's pain, have no value
    To your fearful soul, and innocent mind.
    But I hope, someday the blues of my poems
    That roam carelessly in my mind's ample sky,
    Shall blend finely in the coming days
    With the crimson red, of your lovely twilight.

  • ray_chahal 7w

    Here four walls surround me; just concrete,
    And then there was a place wide-open and green,
    That care-free world was so beautiful and serene,
    And was filled with blessings priceless, yet completely free,
    Still I came to this alien place where I do not belong,
    Now I just want to go back home, It's been so long.

    A desire to meet my friends, downright kills me,
    And a dream haunts me to have fun with them
    Like those days so beautiful; now long gone,
    Please forgive me, friends, as I couldn't keep the promises
    To stay in contact everyday, for life-long
    So I just want to go back home, it's been so long.

    I had a home in the countryside, small but enough,
    Where I never felt contentment even for a moment long,
    There I learnt to walk, play and write these poems,
    And wasted time, without caring if it was right or wrong,
    But here I get busy like an ant who perpetually dugs a hole,
    Now I just want to go back home, it's been so long.

    My girl, more beautiful than the goddess of beauty,
    And even more pure and serene than christ's soul,
    Last time I met her, she had in her hands a beautiful rose
    But I had on my lips a news, and in my pocket a passport.
    My love might still be waiting for me, who knows,
    I just want to go back home, it's been so long.

    I want to meet my old parents that still live there
    And I want to hug them, and say nothing more,
    I had thousands of desires before going abroad
    Now one desire is left just to see them alive and healthy,
    Oh lord! Keep them safe till I go back home
    Oh! I just want to go back home, before it's too long.

    People envy me, think I've made it to heaven,
    But have they seen my tears? What do they know?
    I cannot even cry in public, I cannot tell them my pain
    I cannot let myself be called "sissy" by the people I know,
    My friend, if you feel my sorrow, why don't you come along,
    We might have to travel far, but let's just go home, for it's been so long.

    @mirakee @writersnetwork

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    I want to go back home

    I have been living in a foreign country for a long time. I have lost a lot coming here, and I just wrote this poem for all those who live far away from their family. Everything in this poem speaks about my true story.


    ©ray_chahal

  • ray_chahal 7w

    I wish I were just some wood,
    Dry and flat,
    That is burnt in the rituals,
    Preferably eucalyptus slabs.
    I wish that it were placed during the funeral
    On my mother’s body cold and dry,
    But seeing her lying dead in my lap,
    Would make my soul scream and cry.
    Then I would be kindled by my family,
    And I'll see her fade away along with me,
    But then I would only reminisce,
    And regret that her life was so wee.
    She had wanted to see places
    Far away in the east, west and south,
    And yes! Mostly north-
    Where still stood rigidly- her maternal house,
    I had time before, which I could have given her
    When she was alive, and still
    Not even a single desire of her
    I was able to fulfill.
    But at least, now, I would smolder myself
    In the fire along with my mother,
    And provide her with a bed,
    Suitably comfortable for a cadaver.
    For a journey, I know, she had left me,
    And my sisters all alone,
    To meet my father who, some years ago,
    Had already gone,
    Or maybe had gone to perform the Gods order-
    I do not really know for sure;
    But I would mix myself finely with her ash,
    And along with her I would go.
    When, into the flowing rivers,
    Our relatives would throw
    Both of us, then the boat of afterlife
    We together would peacefully row.
    Undoubtedly, I would accompany her everywhere,
    On her journey not small,
    My ash would finely blend with hers,
    And flow in the tides that rise and fall,
    And then she would be my mother again,
    And I, an infant yet unborn
    That lives in the form of ash,
    Once again in his mother’s womb.

    @mirakee @writersnetwork

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    Mother's Womb

    A poem about the feelings of a poet whose mother just died, and this poet, now explains his feelings regarding her death, and writes his regrets and false hopes about his mother in his poem.

    ©ray_chahal

  • ray_chahal 7w

    Pain

    Woodsy aroma from the walls
    of this bleak wooded abode,
    Feels like a mystic elixir
    To my wounded wandering soul.
    Outside, the drumming of the downpour
    Gets heavier as the time unfolds,
    It's ruthless drums compete with the beats
    Of my feeble heart in this weather so cold.
    In this bucolic setting, I perpetually seem to brood
    About my existence; so loveless and uncontrolled,
    Oh God! Tell me how much more I have to suffer,
    How much more till my pain reaches it's threshold?

    ©ray_chahal

  • ray_chahal 7w

    Time

    Am too deep in my sorrow,
    For the time which is lost
    Worrying for the morrow;
    This pain consumes my mind,
    And then it goes right into my spine;
    This pang of anticipation makes me sweat
    In the middle of the nights.
    A flower can be grown, a kid born,
    And the little pigs too can be farrowed,
    While time is one tricky little thing,
    That can neither be born, nor borrowed.
    Time; it is what it is,
    And there won't be any more of it, or any less,
    Unwisely that uses it, must go through a life
    Filled with an awful lot of mess.

    ©ray_chahal

  • ray_chahal 7w

    Living Wrong

    A little warmth in the heart
    Is like a fire that powers my soul;
    More of it, and then it might
    Burn me instantly like coal.
    A little sadness in my heart
    Has dwelled here since a time long,
    The high quality of it teaches me: how well I've lived,
    And it's quantity tells me: for how long.
    Life likes to balance itself out
    And if you live an unbalanced one:
    Understand that you are living wrong.

    ©ray_chahal

  • ray_chahal 7w

    Her Taste

    More I endeavor to un-learn
    Her beautious and generous looks,
    The more they tend to become
    A permanent part of my nous,
    The harder I try to remember
    The less am able to recall her face;
    And, the more I forget her countenance
    More profoundly I miss her taste.

    ©ray_chahal

  • ray_chahal 7w

    Blues

    Blues is the only escape that I can find
    From the sheer emptiness of my soul;
    That has become a perpetual part
    Of my life on which I have no control.
    Now I close my eyes, and go on a journey to my past
    When we both tredded together on a single path,
    You found a place more magnificent than my love
    And left me alone to roam around forever in the dark.
    Now I don't know if my life would ever mean
    Something as deeply as it used to mean with you,
    Perhaps, I'll have to wait for you my whole life
    But I really wish that you show up, in a day or two.
    But untill then, a shallowness shall live under my skin
    And this dejection shall remain full to it's brim.

    ©ray_chahal

  • ray_chahal 7w

    A poet

    A poet, finally, a poet I am,
    That's the core of my soul for certain,
    Today I removed all of my extra shells,
    And a poet is what that still remains.

    A thousand deceptive coats of many colors
    Of sizes numerous I used to wear,
    But I see it now, that a single one fits
    When all the others, by chance, were recently unknit.

    A great tragedy befell upon me just today
    And I was lowered suddenly to my basic extincts,
    In order to survive I didn't pick up a knife,
    But a pen azure and a paper snowy-white.

    Certainly am not a typical man at all;
    Am too bizarre for the society, too eccentric for my love,
    My eyes bleed instead of my dying heart,
    And my pen speaks instead of my wicked mouth,
    Thus I say: A poet I was once, a poet is what I am now.
    ©ray_chahal

  • ray_chahal 7w

    Darkness

    My strongest alliance
    is now with the color dark,
    Which environs my body 
    and dwells in my heart.
    Since the days my candle
    has extinguished herself off,
    Even in the summer noon, 
    This darkness never departs.

    ©ray_chahal