Adjustment poems delve into the kinds of adjustments people have to make in different phases of life. These poems are notes of experience and sacrifice, compromise and love that each adjustment brought about. If you have ever made a adjustment in life, you will relate to these verses.
It’s an adjustment, everyone says, life is to adjust Without questioning, what this adjustment means to anyone. Keep silent, when the other-end goes on shouting and argue For or against, do agree, whatever the other end demands, Without asking why
Why am I like this? Why am I like that? Why am I…me…? Or possibly, My alienated mind; Exceptionally perceives, Sees the same World, Like you but; From a different eye. My being feels so outcast, Like the most complex
Listen, listen to my beating heart It has learnt the expression art Hear, hear my bold manly voice It has learnt the speech to rejoice Look, look at my confident eyes They have learnt adjustment to rise Yes I have
If right hand is unfit for the mouse it can be the left. The mouse is made ready for this adjustment. Both right and left fingers play well on the keyboard and the mind over the screen. Thoughts can still
when another (anointed as lady lucky) resident renter bequeathed her bed prior to that good samaritan deed thyself and spouse slept on the floor like dogs dead tired from another day acclimatizing ourselves, especially when tummies got well fed and
Her voice is an awkward drawl among the manifold chatter, the pitch a bit too high to even assimilate in the uniform blather. Her skin is one too many shades darker than the general throng- a constant and incessant reminder
Means that it is not worth wasting my time worrying about stuff and nonsense, when I have the basics of happiness and contentment. we create our own earth and heaven. we can edit delete, be public, private or not at
In the ancient lives of the comrades who speak and heroes and sheroes who sleep, Sailed in the dim hopes of them who stood stubborn to believe did I, They lay captive at the merciless grip of the local oppressor
A little childhood collecting Waste papers on a garbage dump Asked me, “Am I borne to do this job?” I had no answer A childhood begging on roadside Asked me, “Is my childhood borne for begging?” I had no answer
Is it springtime brewing gentle raindrops or autumn bringing sea-salt aroma or snowy whispers from a wintry mountain peak reluctant to prophesy those true prophecies during the middle age of the night, as if they may over-heal and crack my
Staring in the mirror searching for hope Feeling only doubt and a complete lack of control My soul reaching out looking for a way out of this hole Even on this path, my dreams are so difficult to grab a
Walked we did, and even talked Feeling that the path was same No object nor purpose ever blocked Till one day with none to blame We realised the parallel paths. I could see the world like you No questions asked,
The question you have been asking is right in front of your face The question you have been asking is not the right one you should be asking in this place The question you are so sure of is perpetually
The danger lurks in corner. After double helix, Now cobalt pencil writes the history of mankind. Dirty bomb gives determinate meaning of peace. I turn back to be eaten alive. Like a blade of grass you bend for the cuckoo.
Serenity all but manifest in boundless sort of freeze Swinging of feral boughs with gusts of wild breeze Leaves chafing indolently imbuing calming kind feel Upsurge of distant clouds permeating a wet appeal Moment as if standing still with sublimity
Once it touches it savors, A specialty or a perfect taste, A succulent prep it favors, Abhors that morsel gone waste. Inferno, when spruced with spice Addictive, when trickled sweet, Arctic, when met with ice, Articulate, when prudent and upbeat!
Life is like a journey in the train We board the train all alone We share different moments with so many We travel till our destination in their company We alight leaving behind their memory some sweeter,some bitter and some
A blank paper invites for rape. Snow sinks for a prelude. The black swan flies away for the quiet hills, when sun was drawing out the blood. Alone I will write a poem beneath the tear soaked eyes and then
Being in a wealthy family Being with healthy siblings Could not make my mind happy. A thirst for some thing else Burnt inside me as a fire. My desire grew day by day Nothing could prevent me From my burning
It is said to have goodness, It could be enjoyed with or without sweetness. Having coffee is the time, To discuss issues which are prime. Watching children play, Or granny flaunting the pot she made out of clay. Putting a
I know it’s hard, I know it’s rough. To put the bottle down and say that’s enough.Just one more sip, it’s all I need. Feeling like shit, it’s hard to breathe. Violently shaking, I start feeling sick. Body silently aching.
A school shirt is a memoir; a relic. I left mine several years back tainted underneath the gray box, painted. Written on it were friends’ farewell notes some from lovers some rubbish anecdotes. Tattered was its pocket Ripped were the
The world’s new code of conduct Misusing of office protocols to suit one’s taste Stocking stolen billions in banks and calling it your hard earned money A sweet temptation destroys people’s integrity is it’s goal Causing poverty as you milk
A dream what is that exactly, a reason to live, love, laugh, follow your heart. His heart, her heart, your heart, my heart, their hearts even our own hearts, from that first newborn smack on our baby bottoms, to wail
She builds booby traps from paper clips And ration cans while her GI lover Blows smoke rings But around here a confession constitutes A conviction even if your mouth is full of gold And yet she admits to nothing But
I see a future of war And evil dissent Of poverty and famine And dark discontent A world descended Into desolate gloom All joy and laughter Chased out of the room I see helpless children Lining wasted streets Tattered, just
Same dream, different night a sense of De Ja Vu takes me back to another life… my heart beats fast like angel wings, as you come in out of the shadows I begin to remember everything… Irish green eyes radiating
When postponed, death had no meaning. It was lying in ambush. Journey was imperfect without a termination. Behind the dust was another desire. Another thumb on the trigger starts shooting through the bubble of moon. Every bone springs to jump
I was once asked – If you were to paint motherhood What colour would you use, my friend? Would it be yellow, bright and sunny? Would it be green, full of life and promise? Would it be blue, an intellectual
Thank the stars I whispered You slept well Last night Thank your stars You feel fine To run around And cook your food Thank your stars Your heart beats Without sadness today And the mind is at rest Thank your