Poems

Poems are a form of expression that use language, rhythm, and imagery to convey emotions, ideas, and stories. They often explore deep themes, offering insight into the human experience in a condensed, creative way. With their unique structure and use of metaphor, poems evoke feelings and thoughts that resonate long after the words are read.

The Last Window Seat

The left-side last window seat, my throne,
Where seasons changed but I sat alone.
Winter’s hush, the golden dawn,
Then summer’s blaze, and monsoon’s song.

Through mist and dew, I traced the days,
Green fields dancing in the sun’s warm gaze.
Raindrops racing down the glass,
Yet, I missed the muddied hearts that passed.

Faces familiar, yet names unknown,
Strangers became stories, then stories were gone.
Some I lost, for better or worse,
Some remained, a fleeting verse.

Goodbyes hung in the morning air,
Families parting—love or despair?
Some left in sorrow, some in relief,
A farewell laced with quiet grief.

A child once asked, eyes open wide,
"Does the sun chase us, or do we chase the light?"
And I, in silence, watched them dream,
Between the stops, between the scenes.

Some rushed for life, some for love,
A wedding’s joy, a hospital’s hush.
Everyone arrived, their station called,
Yet I remained, lost in it all.

And when the seats turned empty, bare,
I sat and wondered in the cold night air—
Was I chasing the storm, or was it me?
Drifting alone, where I’m meant to be.

- Jayshri Khachar

Where the Wind Takes Me

Let the wind decide where I go,
Like a feather, light and slow.
Drifting high in open skies,
Dancing free, where fate applies.

But what if I get caught midway,
On rusted fences, forced to stay?
A whisper lost in tangled trees,
Hanging still among the leaves.

What if the breeze they called my fate,
Was just a storm that came too late?
Not freedom’s call, but a reckless tide,
That spun me fast, then cast me aside.

Or maybe, I’ll rest between the pages,
A story kept through fleeting ages.
Pressed within a poet’s rhyme,
A feather stilled, yet held in time.

- Jayshri Khachar

Window Side

People think sitting by the window
is only about watching flowers bloom,
rain falling softly,
and trees dancing in the wind.

But it’s not always beautiful.

Today,

I saw five accidents.
One car burned down completely.
Another hit a man who was just going home
after a long day working in the fields.
Maybe he was rushing to have dinner with his family.
Now he’ll never make it.

The other three cars…
I don’t even know if I should pray for them.
The scene looked so bad,
it felt like there was nothing left to hope for.

This window doesn’t just show me beauty—
it shows me pain,
death,
and how fast life can change.

Now I’m not sure
if the window makes me feel peaceful
or helpless.

- Jayshri Khachar

Inkbound Hearts

She turns the pages, soft and slow,
In worlds where whispered winds still blow,
Where love is fierce, and hearts can break,
And every word a promise makes.

Her fingers trace the lines of lore,
In stories old and myths of yore.
She meets them there, in ink and dream,
These men who live where none can see.

There’s Adrian with eyes of fire,
A noble heart, a darkened sire,
Who holds her close through battles fought,
And in his gaze, she’s always caught.

Then there’s the poet, lost in rhyme,
Who writes her name with every line,
His love a secret, sweet and pure,
A silent bond that will endure.

She knows them well, though they are not
Of flesh and bone, but woven thought.
Each smile, each tear, each whispered sigh,
Is hers to keep, though they pass by.

In crowded rooms and silent nights,
She holds them close in candlelight,
Her heart adrift in their embrace,
In every word, she finds her place.

They’ll never age, they’ll never fade,
These men of fiction, love’s parade.
Though time may pass, and worlds may shift,
She’s bound to them, her heart adrift.

For in these pages, she is free—
A reader’s love, for all to see,
She’s found her men, and they, in turn,
In her heart’s library, always burn.

- Jayshri Khachar

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