Growing Up

Growing up is no fun,

Before one realizes,

Grows up to

What used to be despised,

And now being resented

For being despised

For the same

That used to be despised,

And the whinings start,

For being misunderstood

Oh, why the world can’t see

What one sees,

Is the world that blind?

Growing up is

Surely no fun.

Love is not blind

Those who profess by

Love at first sight,

Are also the ones

Brainwashed by the notion

Love is blind.

Like a fine wine

Mellowed by age,

A taste enhanced,

And value soared,

Love that has withstood

The test of time,

Seen the ebb and flow

Of life,

Good times and the bad,

That’s the love

That thrives.

The wrinkles of time,

Unkind to the beautySkin deep,

Dims the sights,

Enhancing the glow

That burns steadily

Deep down in the heart,

Whispers,

Love is not blind,

Love is not blind.

Skooby’s Call : RonovanWrites Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt Challenge # 204 Home & Free

This post is in response to Ronovan’s Weekly Haiku Challenge .

Also in recognition of Ronovan’s warning ( or disclaimer ) ” , this post is neither about religion or any political issue

His blind faith on us
Little did he know our choice
Nine rewarding years

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We picked up Skooby about nine years back from Humane Society. He definitely was our choice as we saw his photo while researching for a dog.  When we went to see him first, he did not show any interest towards us at all and the lady volunteer who was looking after Skooby told us that he may not be a good fit and we should look for some more.  As we came out of the room and went to another rook to look at some other dogs, we realized that our daughter ( eleven at that time) was not with us. We went back to the other room and saw that she was sitting on the ground in front of Skooby’s crate and cuddling his feet and snout that he had out through the bars of the crate door.  Well, as people say, the rest is history and our bundle of joy is still with us all these years.  As the kids grew up and moved out to college, he is our happy companion keeping us away from empty nester syndrome.

Forlorn Friday

Nothing good comes from
Heart filled with hatred
Broken strings not
Good music make
A gloomy day
Even a forlorn Friday
Will pass
Like the tree in winter, patient
Knows spring will come
Keep that light burning
Hope will see us through
An eye for an eye
A blind world makes
Fill hearts with love
Darkest days sure
Will pass by

Where dreams come to die

‘We know their dream; enough

To know they dreamed and are dead; ‘ —W.B. Yeats ‘

 

Beware all ye who tread this road
Myriads traversed this path long before

This path is paved by their bones

Turn around, turn around
Before your dreams crush to dust

Swept under the swirling sands of history

Cries to feeble for those who follow to hear

Sordid stories of the powerful and the mighty

Spinning webs of fortune and glory

Fools following their calls of perceived glitter

Paid the ultimate price, this path doth litter
With their unfulfilled dreams

Ghosts of the tyrants and marauders of the past

False messiahs and society’s vainglorious leaders
With pretentious messages cast long shadows

Ruination only reward for those who follow

Does it matter who go first, dreams or dreamers

Blind followers’ dreams will lie shattered

Those who are left behind
Sheltered observers, detached all

Would rue the lessons of history not learnt
From the safe cocoons of their warm hearths
Wonder why no one heard their call

Beware ye all,

This road is the one chosen
Of all those dreamers
Who left behind their cry
Listen ye all, listen well
This road is the one

Where dreams come to die

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This poem is in response to Jane Dougherty’s A Month (November) with Yeats Challenge day Twenty Four