Strike O’ Muse

Today, my mother turns 62 years young.

Of all she has learnt from her life, the essence, she knows, remains in never settling, ever pursuing, and setting high standards for everything. If this already means trouble for us (I’m chuckling as I write this), it means that we, too, have to continuously better ourselves at everything we do. Tomorrow, she retires from her workplace. Over 30 years of her employment has seen her wear many hats most amongst which have been worthy of inspiration. But as she readies herself for what lies ahead, I can only wish a wish for her.

It is time she can dedicate her energies to do what she has always dreamt of doing. I wish her to pick the most cherished ones from her long list of passions. As she readies herself for the day she begins her ‘work from home,’ I gift her this poem:

For the one who,
Has never gotten tired of
Ever committing herself
To whatever came thereof;

For the one who,
Gave up dreams on her own.
Made instead the ones from those
Of her children as though of her own;

For the one who,
Committed to every single minute
Everything that she had
To be the best—I mean it;

For the one who,
Even though lost more
Found less. Learnt more.
Taught nevertheless;

For the one who,
Dedicated her life for work.
Strike once again, so she can
Work her way up to life.

Strike, for you must.
Let her find her way forward.
Be the light in the never-calming storms.
Be her inspiration amidst the storming calms.

©Suyog Ketkar

Happy birthday, Aai. 🙂

Vultures Around

As the winds around soar
I spread my wings
It is a world of definitions
Of it, I know not all things.
The vultures await my failure
Wait for me to fall, of a failed flight.

The vultures that wish to nibble
The crumbs of my plight.
I wish once again
Neither to prove them wrong
Nor myself right.
For I know that I must
Let success speak through my might.

I choose to rise to the occasion
Wings to the wind, Eyes to the Sun
Head held as high as the morale
Who’s afraid of the height?
With drifts and thrusts
I sway myself through
Through the blinding days
Through the darkest nights.

©Suyog Ketkar

Ever Neglected. Never Neglected.

The teeming thoughts.
The cavalcade of words,
Both old and new.
That, which brings me back to life anew.

The vibrant imagination.
The kaleidoscopical memory.
The artistic renditions.
That’s awarded to but few.

The waif, in this case,
The writing and the muse.
The lore, the telling, the cure.
That desperation profuse.

The simplicity. The awe.
The determination. The jigsaw.
The striking of just the right cords.
That music. Listen, dear, that’s the cue.

The perceptions. Love and geniality.
The drumming, thumping, parading reality.
Despite despair; nothing being new.
That, which comes from within, is but You.

©Suyog Ketkar

Who am I?

A vision that I am.
I must look beyond the horizon.

A thought that I am.
I must break-free caring little for your snare.

The time that I am.
I must reach you early to evade your despair.

A wish that I am.
I must fulfill beyond the desire.

A song that I am.
I must sync with the lyre.

The passion that I am.
I must continue to burn beyond the pyre.

A word that I am.
I must spread faster than a wildfire.

A soul that I am.
I must merge with the higher.

©Suyog Ketkar

The Rock-Solid Self

Waves of sorrow
Smother me. I still stand ashore
Solid, as a rock.

© Suyog Ketkar

#haiku #micropoetry

AKA Life

The macabre imaginations of non-existence.
The morbid interests of people show in my choices.

The manipulative judgements by the wishful mob.
The maniacal interpretations of the merciless souls.

The connection between fate and celestial geometry—often fashioned.
The coherence between life and logic—often conjectured.

The jolts of life.
The jeering people nudging me to the pyre—not at all a surprise.

The velvety words. The coarse assumptions.
The visual appeal of inaudible emotions.

The deceitful intentions.
The demanding expectations.

Life is a smorgasbord.
What else, after all, do I expect it to be.

© Suyog Ketkar

Micropoetry: War Medals

Medals symbolize
Not what’s won but also lost.
That’s, the untold story.

© Suyog Ketkar

#micropoetry #haiku

The Name that Wasn’t

The Name that Wasn’t

No voice, no noise.
No reflection of oneself.
No definition; none for assumption.
I am not myself.

Now here, now there.
I pity myself.
Now this, now that.
I am not myself.

Neither today nor tomorrow.
I can’t portray the inner self.
One’s thoughts, another’s actions.
I am not myself.

Neither from the rain
Nor from the draught.
From where do I then
Glean myself?

I am but a name
That tiny nothing
Neither more nor less.
I remain myself.
© Suyog Ketkar

What Stops Me from Writing?

It is the fear of losing out—
The experience, that is—on the Present
That I sometimes
Stop myself from writing.

However, it is the boon of—
Heart, that is—self-belief
That I reserve as I
Get back to writing.

It is the fear of falling behind—
The dreaded race, that is—monies
That I sometimes
Stop myself from writing.

However, it is resorting to—
Karma, that is—calmness under pressure
That I fall back upon myself and
Get back to writing.

It is the fear of getting lost in—
Cluelessness, that is—the abundance of words
That I sometimes
Stop myself from writing.

However, It is the truth of—
Candid confessions, that is—life
That I seek, and thus,
Get back to writing.
© Suyog Ketkar

Micropoetry: The Wait is Over

Time flies, I would say.
Cuddles, and not Calls today;
My Princess comes back.

© Suyog Ketkar