Friday, March 1, 2019




How can I be myself
my own tree
my own roots, branches, leaves
my own flowers in the morning of
my own sun.

I do not want to be someone
in the doorway,
the back alley or
the main road
without night lights of
my own moon.

In my own shadow
I can walk and be myself
but I am not
who I am
all I am is
my love for you.

Without you
I peel off
in layers of
memories, dreams and desires
some contented
others unfulfilled.

I will be myself
the day I catch winds
with my own fingers
to become fire
with a passionate glow.


No magical thoughts
No miracle pen in hand.
I put words on paper
to let them tell their own story.

The words sprout
and grow on stacks of papers.

Strange, how words become
flowers and bloom to
mend broken hearts
reunite past lovers
reunify lost relatives
dry tear soaked cheeks.

It wasn’t my intention to combine
them in a manuscript
but here I am
kneeling on the floor
to dust, clean and arrange them.

I see a ray of light
stream through the window and
make every scattered word
on the paper dance
to the melody of breeze.

I stop and listen to the sound.
It is as close as my breath.
It steers me to introspection
of this lonely craft
of writing poetry
that makes me love you
and so many other things.


I tear
the heart of the mountains
at the speed of a shooting star.
I trample
the canyon roads from
Hope to Lillooet, in search of
a bindi, placed on her forehead
carefully, trying to reincarnate.
Karma will probably never allow it.

At night
all stars look the same.
I wonder if perestroika has
disarrayed the red star over Moscow or
the star over Tiananmen Square
is dimmer now or the blue
Star of David is secure over Golan Heights
like a bindi on her forehead?
I can’t be sure about the nationality of stars.

Like a winding road entwines
the mighty Rockies, her arms
around my neck and her soft body
hard pressed against mine,
wrings my soul with
a force of an avalanche.
A vagrant tear on the edge of her eyes,
glows like a star.
A goodbye in its most subtle form,
a time of departure for me.

Beneath the starless sky,
I don’t know my destination.


ASHOK K. BHARGAVA Ashok is a poet, writer, committed community activist, public speaker and a keen photographer. Based in Vancouver, he continues to combine in his life, all of the above yet it is apparent that his main passion is poetry. Ashok writes both in English and Hindi, and has published several selections of his poems: Mirror of Dreams, A Kernel of Truth, Skipping Stones and Lost in the Morning Calm, among others. His poetry has been published in various literary magazines and anthologies. He has been a featured poet on CBC, CFMQ 105 radio and Channel M television. He was also featured at the Word on the Street, the Asian Heritage Month and International Story Tellers Festivals. Ashok has written for The Canada Times Magazine and the East West News, Asian Journal, The Link, Indo-Canadian Voice and many other newspapers. Ashok is a Poet Laureate of Axlepin Publishing House Philippines and recipient of many awards and distinctions. He holds a Masters Degree in Economics. He is an avid volunteer and believes donation of time enriches us spiritually. He is founder of WIN – Writers International Network Canada, a non-profit organization that discovers, nourishes and recognizes writers of diverse genres, artists and community builders. Recently he was awarded the "Poets Without Borders Peace Award." by The World Peace Poets for his leadership of WIN – Writers International Network Canada and his journeys across the globe to celebrate poetry and collaborate with poets of the world.

1 comment :

  1. Good work Ashok Bhargava. I like your page and your poems. Congratulations on all the good work you are doing.