Bottled Up


some goodbyes
are best
when left unsaid
random words
put on paper
with meanings
of depth
floating rolled
in a bottle
somewhere along
the waves
some stories
are best
when left untold
for random messages
in bottles
seldom find
their shores.


you and me
are beyond
the boundaries
of a hello
and a goodbye
we’ll continue
to meet
again and again
after destined
gaps of time.



The Lamp


meaningless conversations
with meanings hidden
in the depths of
unknown ocean beds
the darkest sunsets
brightened by
the magical light
of a heretofore
invisible lamp
the evening winds
holding their breath
the umbrella of leaves
hushing the pitter-patter
of the occasional rain
trying to catch
the exchange of words
amidst the
mirrored strides
fate plays tricks
when in the middle
of unseen storms
it intentionally leaves
the flame of a lamp
glowing bright
in test of the human self
and sometimes
for the beaten soul
the light of the lamp
seems inspiring enough
to shovel through
the fury of
the biggest avalanche.


The Auction


A painting
a face
a person
but to you
a number is all
that it was worth
the soul
you couldn’t feel
the strokes
you couldn’t understand
the colours
the blending
the shades
the melody
of emotions
just a messy mix
of nothingness to you
And the painter laughs
his brush
now a magic wand
put a number to it
and when
the hammer falls
a number
is all you’ll get
for sometimes
those expressions
that you saw
as just smudges
on a canvas
priceless masterpieces
for some.

Musings – ‘g a m e s’


The difference between board-games and real-life-games is that in the former the rules of playing never change, and the board always remains the same. In the latter, everything can change, so before you decide to roll the dice on someone, remember that the possibility of the numbers that could come up are way more than the normal one to six, and sometimes its your own roll of the dice that does you in.   ©Vidur Sahdev 2016



Sunrise, and a dream
to plant a field of gold
ploughed the land
planted the seeds
his karmic deeds
toiled to dig channels
connecting the fields
to the flowing stream
life giving arteries
to his world of dreams
then the storm
somewhere afar
suddenly blocking
the flow from
that liquid heart
his own barely
beating now
the soil gasping
for the water of life
a bucket for a tool
the running legs
each refill
seeming further away
the result at best
one drop of hope
on a tongue parched
and he looks above
at those beyond
the painted skies
a few drops
trickling down
from his brow
then a couple more
from his pleading eyes
as if saying –
these are mine
that now fall
to the ground
but for the cracks to fill
I need some of yours.