As the name suggests, this genre comprises of poems that are short in length and use literary techniques such as meter, metaphor and rhyme. Short poems present the extravagant experiences, the long extensive thoughts in a shorter version. A piece of writing using beautiful or unusual language arranged in fixed lines that have a beat and often rhyme.
Matters of heart Are for it to know only, At crossroads sometimes We are indecisive and lonely. No rescue can redeem What the heart loses after, No stranger can sense The catch in our laughter. Morphed into a weird world
Come to me softly, whispering my name among leaves, along streams, flowing, flowing, singing with great tenderness, oh! if only you would call for me softly, softly, from the moon, from the foam of the sea, from the palm of
Only so many tigers Left in the wild— Donate generously To ‘Save the Tiger’ Ran a television commercial! The commercial Was not being telecast… Once in a while— It was appearing Every other minute That too, not in just one
Come to me as though you were summoned, as though the colour of the evening sky, reminded you of lost love, as though the call of a crow, spoke to you about things inseparable, as though from the depths of
Radio blares incoherent songs people speak excitedly about music billboards advertise wares there are outlets everywhere the lights are bright and night still young and the road never ends… There is a girl in silhouette a woman with torn
Why is it so difficult to convince The Heart, That feelings nowadays are sold at The Mart. Ventured into The Mart, in hand The Heart, And In tow, a shopping cart. Trust was on sale in a neat pack, Came
She can barely walk after a gruesome day at work There are bruises on her forehead, her knees looks like they hurt Her face looks pale and her smile has gone grim Her hands look wrinkled, her hair badly needs
Democracy Is no longer What it used to be… Democracy was Government Of the people; By the people; And, for the people! But, Today, Democracy is… Government Of the people; By politicians— For capitalists!
The wind’s flaming sword cut through the brazen land, grasses along its wrath are flared, and seeds for the songbird fell flat on the ground, temperature’s tune seems amplified, 360 degrees around: Baked clod. And the stems turn into dried
The error of terrorism, they say, it is the power of belief. When the blood paints the earth, they say, it is the color of relief! The mask they wore, shows, how cowardly they are, The pain they caused, reminds,
Remember that fairy tale we read together? The prince and princess wearing crowns stellar studded with the rarest of gems! I got similar ones made by my jeweler. But he said he’d have to use artificial colored stones I Compromised!
A soon to be mother’s thoughts, when connecting to the baby in her womb… The bud that you are, soon to bloom, As you ramble cherub, all over my womb, Bouncing and punching without care, “Safe birth”, my heart pleads
In you, is the sunshine of the summer, That burns me to work harder and smile longer, Awakens me to challenge the world’s stubbornness ….. In you, is the dancing rain of the monsoon, Who takes me higher and rejuvenates
Switch on The tape recorder Let the music begin… Do not touch The pause, Fast forward, Stop, Eject, Or, the Rewind buttons! Let the music Flow at its Usual pace! I do not Want to rush Into my future By
Too much said, too much heard. Numbness remains, unperturbed. Freckles of past, growing on words Poems look like a discolored herd Stifling sunrises deep within Echoing thoughts under the skin I crave for myself, more each time Reciting a wordless,
Desperation again, delusion revisited unreal reality, imagined homeland mythical fables, illusionary expectations we live in make believe world not a single shred of truth around each one of us running towards a distant horizon no sign of arriving, no sign
I felt God within me. The wave spread through my mind, There are roses growing, From the fertile inner soils, Wisdom I seek I seem to find, Appearing before me like a transitory gift I need only extend my hand,
Wet cheeks and bruised heart, Words that tore the being apart, Betrayal and treachery part of the game, Acts that put love to shame. Broken promise and shattered dream, Lies that stole the gleam, Shutting of ears, could not stop
I get these weird reading pangs, as Monday afternoon awkwardly hangs. Kafka’s letter to his dad Morrison makes me ‘oh so sad’ Amitav Ghosh and his brain stirring images “Poetry undergoing new-lingo damages” Four gulps of water and a (micro)soft