What if this is all there is?

What if this,
is all there is?
What if this..
is as good as it gets?
What if this is
as far, you were
meant to be;
And everything
that you ever
dreamed about
for the future,
were memories;
Being carried on
from a past life.
A past where,
you had it all.
A life where,
you made it all.
And yet you still,
wiped that slate..
clean;
Just for this!
Maybe you had
everything.
Everything,
but happiness.
Everything,
but satisfaction.
Just an empty,
dark void..
That you could
never manage to fill.
Maybe the purpose
of all your sorrows,
all your struggles,
all your happiness,
and all your
experiences;
Was to bring you..
Here.
Here,
in this present;
That you
so carelessly
discount for
being a lot less,
than it is.
This present,
that you never
fully learned to
appreciate; Because
you were always
too fixated about
filling that void.
The void that
cannot be fulfilled.
The void that robs you
of the present,
that is the present;
While keeping you chasing.
While keeping you running
after uncertain tomorrows,
as all your todays
Have come and gone.
Each one of them
having failed,
to satisfy you.
Wouldn’t you regret
not enjoying this,
a lot more?
Wouldn’t you regret
not living; while
you could have..
If you realise,
At the end
Of it all..
This,
was the best
you could have ever had?

© Jay Kaushal

Photo by Jay Kaushal

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Photo-poem ‘My Dreams’

Photo & Poem by Jay Kaushal.

This is the last couplet from my sonnet ‘My Dreams

New poems every Wednesday & Sunday

NowHere

What do you do;

When you are lonely,

But not alone?

Who do you turn;

To share those moments,

You can’t express?

Do you wear,

A smile on your face, or frown?

A feeling of melancholy, or bliss?

Or do you yearn for a hug?

Or a smile or a careless kiss?

For years and years, I’ve been lonely;

But never have I ever been alone.

I’ve tried hiding my thoughts and

I’ve tried, letting them be known.

I sit and ponder in those times,

I have none but me for company;

Does life pass me by?

Or does it simply fail;

to keep up with me?

© Jay Kaushal

This poem is actually one of my oldest poems. I wrote this one way back in 2014, sitting in the office around mid day back in my first job. Lol how time passes…

The girl in the subway

‘The girl in the subway’ is a poem about a homeless girl.

Beautiful dusty brown locks
Carelessly covering her pale cheeks.
Careful not to look needy.
Needing help, just as it is.

She sat shivering, crouching in the subway.
In just her hoodie and a jeans long past worn.
Rubbing her hands for warmth
As her breath froze in the cold Monday morning air.

People all scurrying past; to get
To where they all needed to be.
Not calling for any attention,
this young girl just stood out to me.

I paused to help but in two minds.
What could I do for her anyway?
She just looked liked a typical runaway.
She wasn’t asking for help or anything.
It was -4 outside and she just sat there,
Without a warm coat; shivering.

I walked over involuntarily, said hi.
Stretching out my hand not knowing why..
She looked up puzzled, unsure how to react
As she feebly shook my hand trying to smile back.

Do you need a cuppa dear? It’s awfully cold today.
A cuppa would be nice but maybe some other day.
Then a cigarette maybe? She nodded.
“Here take some.”
I held out the packet, she pulled out only one.

I lit one for myself crouching beside her.
Her hands were shivering it was hard to click the lighter.
She blew out some smoke as the ice between us broke.

“I’m Phil” I said to her.
She seemed lost; just looking away.
You must be getting late sir.
Don’t you have to start your day?
Oh I can go a little later it’s fine by me.
Tell me really; a sandwich and coffee?

A coffee would be nice but not today.
Thanks for the smoke, I’ll be alright.
Don’t worry, I’ll survive another day.

There was nothing more I could do here.
I got up to go on my way.

I’m Maggie she said looking right at me;
Her face wearing a smile wry.

You take care Maggie. See you again? Will I?

She nodded very slowly and said almost in pain.
I’m always here Phil.
I’m always here alone; But you won’t see me again.
You’ll be running past me next time, like always;
Like everybody else, hurrying to catch the train.

© Jay Kaushal

Inspired by Maggie’s Story by Stephen Black.

The donkey cart

‘The donkey cart’ is a critique of modern materialisic society.

It’s never enough
What you have.
The mind wanders
Always towards lack.

My needs are met,
More or less;
But my wants are
Always found wanting.

Like a carrot hanging
Over a donkey cart,
I find my wants
Seem to Always evade.

Then I realise after
Slaving away and away,
I’ve had my needs
With me all day.

All that trouble just
Chasing illusions beyond reach?
Never once satiated with
What I always had?
What was always mine?

Wants are treachorous devices
Of selfishness, materialism, greed.
Living happily is just,
Taking what you need;

And leaving the rest
To fulfill the needs
Of the wise ones

And the wants of
The donkeys pulling carts…

© Jay Kaushal

The Graffiti Artist

‘The Graffiti Artist’ is a poem about a painter and how he started painting walls.

Paint!
Said a voice in my head
Paint !
It cried once again;
As I stood before
A sorry crumbling wall;
With holes in it,
Loose bricks and all.

“But what’s the point?”
I shook my head
Beginning to walk away.
“This wall is done for.
It’s just crumbling away.”

What will I gain?
Putting my art and
My sweat in vain?
This pent up art
Inside me, is meant;
For far greater expression.
To fritter it away,
On this junk; is
An insult to creation.

Paint! Beseeched the voice.
Paint…Just to paint..
Like all the things,
You do just to do…
A decay in surrender,
Has but no meaning.
Dissolve me in colour,
Pray paint me too!

Give me life; even if
Like a false hope.
Even if in passing,
Let me be seen;
By those passing by.
Walls all around me,
Are painted so lovely.
Some yellow, some orange,
Some green, some blue.
Fill me with colour,
Even if in death;
Grant my last wish,
I pray to you.

Give me a meaning,
I have never had.
Give me an identity
That I never knew.
Heal me with colour,
I need you to.
Let colours this time,
Rain on my wounded
Bricks; like clouds do.
Paint!
Oh paint me too….

© Jay Kaushal

No photos

‘No Photos’ is a conversation between an angel and a man who died young.

“Heaven is like
Reliving the renaissance.”
Said the angel.

“Anywhere you look,
Wherever you see;
There are,
Corridors and corridors
Of beauty;
Stretching into eternity…”

What about hell?
What if you end up there?
“Oh..” Smiled he,
Pausing to light his pipe;
Then looking straight at me.

“There are no photos
In hell.
No paintings,
No statues,
Or even
Wallpapers.

There are only
Mirrors;
On every wall.
Some big, some small…”

© Jay Kaushal