In my chase of moments
Yet to come,
I drown fixing problems
I have yet to face.
This is my moment,
My only moment
To live;
I have lost:
Life.
-Khushbo
Lifealight Copyright @2016
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In the depth of my sadness
I wondered at how I could miss
Someone so ready to leave.
As the clouds lift,
I realize its not you,
Its me I miss.
The me I was
When you looked at me
With that silly smile.
– By Khushbo
Copyright @Lifealight, 2016
Life is an illustrious ball
With men and women dancing tall.
Sometimes together in orbit;
Often in undeniable repulsion.
None the less it all goes:
Round and round like clockwork,
Days changing to night and
The nights awakening to mornings.
Here we are: where we started.
Having twirled in a circle,
Now back to where we started.
Take a bow try again.
– Khushbo
©lifealight.com, 2014.
It seems unreal to save a life
Is it a simple venture or a lie?
Handing out a used coat, an extra coffee;
I have saved a moment not a fate.
That night is still to be conquered
by those that suffer without a home.
Life is love they say, life is cheer,
Now put on a smile and think positive.
Tomorrow’s another day, we must start over,
Let the sorrow’s of yesterday fall away.
But what of those sitting still in the cold rain?
How may I ask shall they make merry?
Charity is received everyday, it falls away
into a endless pit of “feel good” giving.
The coffee I gave; picked by a child
miles away and unable to afford school
The coat made by a mother still unable to
feed her family after long hours of toil.
Rest assured I have done well,
Sleep well I shall,
In absolute oblivion to the harm I cause
even in the good I think I do.
Can there be any real good?
Should I sleep better with the thought:
I cannot change it all,
I must not dwell in what I cannot change.
I will sleep well tonight.
Because today I changed the world;
I wrote a poem.
-Khushbo
©lifealight.com, 2014.
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break,
that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life,
your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart,
even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy and hard,
is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen, And the cup he brings,
though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which
the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.
– Khalil Gibran
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
– William Ernest Henley
Photo by: Khushbo
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run –
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!
– Rudyard Kipling
