Glass of Wine

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Between my dreams and reality,
that sends shivers down my spine
my fears and hopes swim
like untold stories in a glass of wine.

All my implicit thoughts,
the desire to make you mine
all lie smoothly on the impression
of my lips on a glass of wine.

A sip of hopefulness,
a sip of helplessness,
tells my thoughts to recline,
alters the color of my eyes
while I talk to an affable glass of wine.

There is no song to play
no words on the blue line,
yet the heart weeps
as I drink another glass of wine.

– Kritika Vashist

(October, 2014)

Sleepless Nights

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The stars spread themselves
over the velvet night sky.
The moonlight penetrates
the darkest voids.
As the silence embarks
another sleepless night.

Through out the day
the clock ticks recklessly,
and the night appears
in a blink of an eye.
Perhaps, time loves night,
as the clock ticks like a ponderous animal.
Perhaps, nights are always heavy,
for they carry our thoughts
all our grief, all our sorrows
all broken dreams, all tomorrows.
Perhaps, nights listen patiently,
about the stories of our loneliness
of our lost love, and all secrets
of disappointment, and regrets.
Perhaps, nights are longer,
for they fight with the demon
that lives within us,
and the one only known to us.

And I wonder,
How the nights are silent,
and yet, speak the loudest.
How the nights are meant to sleep,
and yet, I am here at 1:20 am,
struggling with another sleepless night.

-Kritika Vashist

Stairway to Heaven

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There was no scope for a late evening walk that day. After wandering nowhere with my already fragile body and weak yet, strong thoughts in a bitter cold weather, there was no energy left to look at dead stars and veiled moon while I walk through rarely preferred thoughts. It is weird how these weak thoughts are able to remain strong in your head.

I unsealed a bottle of rum and served it neat to myself. When you are alone with your unbridled thoughts, the cold wind that passes through you gets colder. Neat rum, a pen and a notepad were necessary to keep myself warm. I knew what to write, I didn’t know how to. I opened the pad and started writing, “And if you listen very hard, the tune will come to you at last. When all are one and one is all.”

I was certain that it wasn’t just me who was writing. My soul, and I were gathered to write a poetry about how messed up my mind is, about my desires and contentment and about heaven of my soul and heaven of my mind. Writing with my soul was the only way when all could have been one and one could have been all. I had written away everything that perturbed me, in my own words with a bleeding pen. However, that day it was all from the soul to the nib of the pen. I willingly let the soul talk about her, my own mean and greedy mind.

There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold. And she’s buying a stairway to heaven. When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed, with a word she can get what she came for,” the soul started to talk. She always takes an easy way to get all things she wants. She knows it isn’t difficult as long as the world is crafty like her as it takes another crook to get what she comes for. Realizing my mistake of never hearing the soul’s song, of being ignorant about my thoughts I wrote, “In a tree by the brook, there’s a songbird who sings. Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven. Oh, it makes me wonder.”

“In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees, and the voices of those who stand looking. Oh, it makes me wonder,” I continued as I perceived the vision of my soul and realized how I had ignored those weak yet, strong rings of smokes.

My soul knew that these realizations had made me nervous and regretful, and it also knew how to bring back some hope in me. The soul replied optimistically, “If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now. It’s just a spring clean for the May queen. Yes, there are two paths you can go by , but in the long run, there’s still time to change the road you’re on.” It was after these words that my face made creases of happiness, to know that there is always a chance.

I was no longer worried. I wasn’t feeling cold. My body was relaxed and I was relieved. I had known how cunning she has been till now. I had also known how to set everything right and to stop my spirit from leaving. To embrace whatever was there and to bring down all my endless desires. I had known to not follow the mean her. I had known about the unpleasant whispering winds. And I had known that the sinful whispering of winds would never take me to heaven, heaven of my soul.

I swigged down the last sip of the rum and continued the poem, “Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow and did you know, your stairway lies on the whispering wind?”
The clouds unveiled the moon and I penned the last line of our poem, “And if you listen very hard, the tune will come to you at last, when all are one and one is all.”

-Kritika Vashist

(Song by Led Zeppelin, Stairway to Heaven)