poem for dad written on his birthday......

Wish you a warm birthday in cold antaritica....may you achieve all heights of universe as you always do...
"Because time itself is like a spiral, something special happens on your birthday each year: The same energy that God invested in you at birth is present once again"
Instead of counting candles, Or tallying the years, Contemplate your blessings, As your birthday nears.
Consider special people Who love you, and who care, And others who’ve enriched your life Just by being there.
Think about the memories Passing years can never mar, Experiences great and small That have made you who you are.
Another year is a happy gift, So cut your cake, and say, "Instead of counting birthdays, I count blessings every day!"
Ever since my life began, I realized that "You da man!" I saw your wisdom, your courage too, And I learned I could rely on you.
Your tolerant nature was really great; Nevertheless, you'd not hesitate To let me know when I'd been bad; It must have been hard, but that's being a dad.
You're strong and smart and filled with love-- A gift to me from up above, So here's a greeting from your biggest fan: Happy Birthday, Dad, 'cause "You da man!"
Of all the men in the whole wide world, Whose praises are sung out loud, There is no man whom I respect more, Or of whom I am more proud.
Throughout the years, you’ve worked so hard To provide us a happy life; You’ve been there to help and give advice, And you did it all without strife.
I am so blessed to be under your wing, your protection, your care, learning important life lessons from you. If all fathers were like you, the world would be a very different and much better place. If all fathers were like you, the world would be a very different and much better place. That is why on this day each year, I pray all your wishes come true; Today we celebrate your life,
So Dad, Happy Birthday to you
And in the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years

Tears

I look up

as a tear rolls slowly

down my cheek

I think about better days

and wonder if I'll feel that way again

you look at me

with those eyes I know so well

always serious, so deep and insightful

as though you're always in control

But not today

not now

Now you look so scared

like for once you don't have the answer

I gaze at you

looking deep into those eyes

Hoping to understand

why you've said those things you did

I wonder for a moment

if this is all a dream

if I shall wake in the morning

and be relieved

you look at me

with a confusion I have never seen

slowly pull me towards you

and wipe the tears from my cheek

Unexpressed

Unexpressed
The sweetest notes among the human heart-strings are dull with rust; The sweetest chords, adjusted by the angels, are clogged with dust; We pipe and pipe again our dreary music upon the self-same strains, While sounds of crime, and fear, and desolation, come back in sad refrains. On through the world we go, an army marching with listening ears, Each longing, sighing, for the heavenly music he never hears; Each longing, sighing, for a word of comfort, a word of tender praise, A word of love, to cheer the endless journey of earth's hard, busy days. They love us, and we know it; this suffices for reason's share. Why should they pause to give that love expression with gentle care? Why should they pause? But still our hearts are aching with all the gnawing pain Of hungry love that longs to hear the music, and longs and longs in vain. We love them, and they know it; if we falter, with fingers numb, Among the unused strings of love's expression, the notes are dumb. We shrink within ourselves in voiceless sorrow, leaving the words unsaid, And, side by side with those we love the dearest, in silence on we tread. Thus on we tread, and thus each heart in silence its fate fulfils, Waiting and hoping for the heavenly music beyond the distant hills. The only difference of the love in heaven from love on earth below Is: Here we love and know not how to tell it, and there we all shall know.

Lal Ded

Kashmir has produced many saints, poets and mystics. Among them, Lal Ded is very prominent. In Kashmir, some people consider her a poet, some consider her a holywoman and some consider her a sufi, a yogi, or a devotee of Shiva. Sume even consider her an avtar. But every Kashmiri considers her a wise woman. Every Kashmiri has some sayings of Lalla on the tip of his tongue. The Kashmiri language is full of her sayings.
Kashmiri Hindus and Muslims affectionately call her "Mother Lalla" or "Granny Lalla". She is also called "Lallayogeshwari". Some people call her Lalla, the mystic.
It is said that Lal Ded was born in 1355 in Pandrethan to a Kashmiri Pandit family. Even as a child, Lalla was wise and religious-minded. When Lalla was twelve years old, she was married. Her in-laws lived in Pampur. The in-laws gave her the name Padmavati. Her mother-in-law was very cruel. She never gave her any peace. It is claimed that her mother-in-law used to put a stone on Lalla's plate (tha:l). She would then cover the stone with rice so that people would get the impression that Lalla had a plateful of rice. Lalla would remain half fed, but would never complain about her mother-in-law. Her father-in-law was a good man and he was kind to her, but her mother-in-law made her miserable. She would even speak ill of Lalla to her husband. Poor Lalla knew no happiness either with her husband or with her mother-in-law.
When Lalla was twenty-six she renounced the family and became a devotee of Shiva. Like a mad person, she would go around naked.
She became a disciple of Sidh Srikanth. She would only keep the company of sadhus and pi:rs. She did not think in terms of men and women. She would claim that she had yet to encounter a man, and that is why she went about naked. But when she saw Shah Hamdan, she hid herself saying: "I saw a man, I saw a man."
Why is Lalla so famous in Kashmir? She was illiterate, but she was wise. Her sayings are full of wisdom. In these sayings, she dealt with everything from life, yoga, and God to dharma and a:tma:. Her riddles are on the lips of every Kashmiri.
The exact date of Lalla's death is not known. It is claimed that she died in Bijbehara (vejibro:r). People like Granny Lalla do not really die. Lal Ded is alive in her sayings and in the hearts of Kashmiris.
The sayings of Lalla number around two hundred.

Sayings of Lal Ded
->By a way I came, but I went not by the way. While I was yet on the midst of the embankment with its crazy bridges, the day failed for me. I looked within my poke, and not a cowry came to hand (or, atI, was there). What shall I give for the ferry-fee?
->With a thin rope of untwisted thread Tow I ever my boat o'er the sea. Will God hear the prayers that I have said? Will he safely over carry me? Water in a cup of unbaked clay, Whirling and wasting, my dizzy soul Slowly is filling to melt away. Oh, how fain would I reach my goal.

Habba Khatoon: The Nightingale of Kashmir

After the death of Lal Ded, A great Kashmiri poetess whom people referred to goddess. The Muse in Kashmir fell in deep sleep for about two hundred years and with the birth of Habba Khatoon it woke up again fluttering and singing, not the mystical experiences or moral exhortations, but the lilting tunes of true romance. Even now, the travelers hum Habba Khatoon's verses on the highway and her songs are sung by men roving upon rivers, by ladies at their looms and farmers in the fields.
Her life: -
Kashmiri poetry, unfortunately, existed largely in oral traditions up to 1930. Therefore, the lives of the poets are mostly wrapped in mystery. So is the case with Habba Khatoon. Nevertheless, the account of her life is based on the firm bed-rock of tradition and legend, illustrated by a few historical flashes of men like Birbal Kachru, Hassan Kohiyami and Moh'd Din Foq. Much of it we know from old men and women living in the villages of Kashmir.
The story of her life is like her poetry, is romantic, pitiful and sad. Her life is marked by misfortunes that culminated in a tragedy.


At a distance of eight miles from Srinagar, the summer capital of Kashmir, is situated the village of Pampore and two miles from it, in the south-east, is a small and narrow valley surrounded by saffron fields and here in this valley is a small picturesque village, known as Chandhara. Far away from here are seen the magnificent mountains and the effect of the whole scenery is alluring and inspiring.
In this beautiful and chanting valley lived a farmer, who supplemented his income by doing some work of embroidery. His name was Abdul Rathar. Although there are many theories, contradictory enough, held by people, about the place of birth and early life of Habba Khatoon, but it is generally believed and accepted that she, earlier called Zoon (which means Moon), was born in the house of this farmer in this very village. She was sent to a Mulla's school (maktab), where she learnt the Holy Quran and a smattering of Persian. The girl grew up into a highly intelligent, sweet-throated and beautiful damsel. It is said that people from far and near came to see her Her father hurriedly married her to a peasant boy, Aziz Rathar who was dull and illiterate.
In the beginning Aziz was proud to be husband of beautiful wife but soon it became jealous of her because of her adoration towards poetry.
After some this things became worse and her mother-in-law ill-treated and nagged her . she got weary of her and hated her, for she did not find her helpful in the fields and attending properly to the household drudgery.
She felt unhappy and sunk into ennui and found escape from the onslaughts of her mother-in-law's and husband's tempers in her songs. Out of this suffering grew up a wistful longing and a pathetic strain which are predominantly present in all her poetry. Once, when utterly dejected, she went to Khawaja Masud, a Dervesh with spiritual powers and related to him the tale of her woe and distress.And then khawaja looked up in the sky and put his hand up and told her that her days of torture would soon end and she would become the queen of Kashmir.It is he who changed her name from ”Joon” to “Habba khatoon” by which she is known today.
Habba Khatoon used to go to collect cow dung, dandelions and edibles with other village belles. On these occasions she used to lighten her own heart and regale her companions by singing verses composed by her on the spur of the moment.
It was a romantic evening and the moon had risen on the clear blue sky, bathing with its silver light, the saffron fields. Habba Khatoon, drunk with the wine of her youth, was roaming about all alone and singing by herself a melancholic strain. She reached a bank and stooped down to dig some dandelion for her supper. When, after a while, she raised her head and stood up, she saw a young man standing motionless and quietly listening to her song.
The light of the moon fell upon her soft hair and turned its brownness into gold; it flickered about her tall, straight form. On her downcast face the color came and went in swift and soft flushes. The young man spoke no word but looked with a half-questioning glance at her. There was a strange pleading in his eyes and he restlessly shifted from one foot to the other. Then he recovered himself and spoke to her in Kashmiri verse, which may be translated as under:
"The Beauty has come out in gay attire I fear the stormy rushing of the rain"
A softness came about her gray eyes and a little smile hovered over the face now uplifted to him. She, too, replied in a verse:
"Take heart, O youth, banish all fear and fright For soon the sun will rend the cloak of night

The conversation in verse continued till she knew that the young man was no other than the heir apparent of Kashmir, Yusouf Shah Chak, who was returning from hunting and had lagged behind his companions on purpose, to enjoy the heavenly beauty of the bright and broad fields. The prince was simply enchanted with Habba Khatoon's beauty and intelligence. Soon after returning to his palace, he got her divorced by Aziz Rathar and brought her to live in his heart and harem. Yusouf Shah himself had a passion for song and music and there were many musicians and singers present at his court. Habba Khatoon learnt the art of classical singing from them and herself contributed musical compositions, particularly the Sufiana Kalaam and Rast-i-Kashmiri. But this joyful life of hers soon came to an end.
Yusouf Shah had ascended the throne of Kashmir in November 1579. At that time the Moghul King Akbar's army was engaged in subjugating and subduing other smaller kings of India. The Moghuls, in fact, had cast an evil eye on Kashmir since the time of Humayun, who had attacked Kashmir but had been repulsed. Similarly, Sher Shah Suri tried to conquer it but he too failed to fulfill his desire. Then in 1560 Akbar sent an army under the command of Mirza Qura Bahadur, but at Rajouri he met a crushing defeat at the hands of Kashmiri soldiers, commanded by Ghazi Khan. Then, again, after twenty-six years he sent, via Uri, an army under the command of Raja Bhagwan Singh to annex Kashmir. But Kashmiris successfully resisted the onslaught of the Moghuls. When Bhagwan Dass saw no hope of victory, he persuaded Yusouf Shah to meet the Emperor Akbar, who, as they told him, would be happy to see him and conclude a treaty of peace and friendship with him. Yusouf Shah, who was a peace-loving king and did not like to shed human blood, accepted the suggestion much against the advice of his beautiful wife Habba Khatoon, who did her level best to dissuade him from undertaking this hazardous journey. But he did not agree and went to meet Akbar at Attock. He was arrested and later in 1587 he was released and granted a jagir at Bassok, Patna and after a three months' illness he died in utter dejection and helplessness and was buried there. Habba Khatoon could not bear Yusouf Shah's separation and it completely unhinged her. She immediately left the royal palace, donned the clothes of a mendicant and renounced the world. She wandered like a ghost on the banks of the river Jhelum, the desolate saffron fields and the haunts of her youth. Then she made a small hermitage at Panda Chok on the banks of the river Jhelum. She poured forth her wailings in her songs. After twenty years she died in desperation and grief and was buried at Atha Wajan at a little distance from her cottage. This grave has recently been repaired by the Kashmir Government.

This is how this beautiful love story end painfully.