PARTHA SARATHI PAUL

I am smiling back
to the smiles of the exalted Jupiter
at the transit to my birth sign
in my otherwise gloomy birth chart.
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Think positive and dream superlative - -
Get up and dare to be yourself
Speak up and proclaim the gifted worth
Take the enemy odds in your stride
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Loneliness is not that bad.
You can count your breaths.
You can count on your violin existence.
You can be your thoughtful companion.
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Were this poem my last poem!
No other poems would tell you many other things.

How I wish I could obscure
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We do not reach our destiny
through the paths we choose to walk along.
Rather, we follow the paths
chosen by our destiny for us.
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while passing through a bad patch
many good claws gift some deep scratch.
gotta bear with all so love bruises
from bitter foes once so dear friends.
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Is it not hard to be wise with the brakes

of a quick and high pick up baby
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White or black
lies wear garb
but their foes stand bare;
don’t they feel like a barb?
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A stage show
for a short run - -

slow or sudden end
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O shyly blushed beauty
your dewy veil is tenderly
lifted by nervously hesitant
late morning sun rays...
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When many hopes dash against a rock reality
all of them never perish; the reduced bits
rise from their forced grave- -
At least one of them like a phoenix
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I like the way we write the lingo.
I love the way the native writers write it.
We often go in a round about way;
Our thoughts travel there via our vernaculars.
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Science is so poor
It cannot say where`s mind!
God`s everywhere….
But it cannot see; such a blind!
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when a woodpecker
pecks at a hollow stem
his pains may be prized
or may just go in vain
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Sujata looked down and blue;
she was giving up on herself
as she could not get on well
with her study and exams.
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Blind love is not merely a fairy tale.
Like a running road it too is very real.
She has taught me this with her true love
being herself too stark blind to too curvy a path.
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The dawn of this new year
has lighted up my dim eyes
that see her rocking a cradle
where will grow REALIZATION.
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Like a flower plant blossoms blooms
a poet bears verses
in His silver aura and in His golden halo
to add a feather of beauty
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Village politics is a populour sad word.
Many villages in Bengal have learnt it for pain.
The poor bastion of red, green or lotus
goes through sudden capturing or recapturing.
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Miss you, miss you, daddy;
miss you very hard.
It`s too long since that last day
when you said, you`d not be long.
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