This is one of the finest pieces of Poetry\Prose dissolved in music. I decided to share this with all of you. Let me know what do you think of it.
Artist : Eden Ahbez
Song : The Wanderer
Category Archives: dream
Promised Children.
Dance to the frivolous melodies,
the time still remains.
We are still children,
sobered under the sun,
sobered by the rain.
A memory is a drop wiped away from the lips,
A potent taste was forgotten on purpose.
To become a child, forget your hands first.
The rain envelops the waves of time,
so learn to close your eyes,
long enough without sleeping
without drifting without crying
and the present will wash off itself
You will be on a ground,
with fresh wet grass,
Your dog still alive,
the cakes do not make you fat,
it’s beautiful,
as it should be,
as I was promised,
long ago.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
A Dream of Laughing Fishes
I think I am back again
somewhere beneath a cold restless wave
where the smell of a forgotten regret lingers.
A thousand eyes map my dread
and serve it back to my face
with a voiceless discontent.
I swirl like a newborn,
till I forget the smell of the skies.
An embellishment for the stars
seeing me slip into an oblivion.
“One’s misery is a supper of pleasure for another”
my demented grandma used to blurt.
She loved eating fish
and now the fishes are laughing,
the limb-lacking unbearable slimy creatures,
are choked with laughter, over my unending dread.
“Kill a fish yourself, let its blood cleanse
your dreams.”
said the friendly psychiatrist.
the crazy fucker didn’t even know,
that it all began from there,
from those very struggling eyes
near to the gills.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Waves
So tell me
just through your eyes
how was it?
when I conjured a wave
in your flesh through touch
When my hands yearned
to be honey to float over your breasts
tracing your nipples, delving your waist,
evaporating away from a meaningless existence
Did you drown the way you should?
When I was inside you,
and we were birds flying in a sky made of fire
with wings melting away like butter.
Can you tell me,
through just your eyes?
through just your touch?
through just us?
My Nightmares taste like Dirt.
Fear flows sometimes
and spurts on some days
out from the warm orifices
in the sleep-deprived sweat glands.
A thirst ridden tongue
has a memory of its own.
It dreams of the dirt
and the sweet hymns of an unending rain.
The flag still hangs on my wall
but they keep washing out blood from it.
My hands are tired of holding the bodies I cannot touch.
Another celestial rotation, a swirl of nothingness :
They have made me a man full of unwritten elegies,
who stares into the abyss rhyming a voiceless song of grief.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Tryst with Myself
I was cuddled up in a sheet that day,
watching the raindrops trace on my reflection,
on the dusty window.
A sound of a drop reverberated more
than the ghastly silence.
In a few minutes, the dust melted away.
The sky wasn’t bright, neither was it dark.
It was an essential gray, promising of a tempting void
that smelled of a fresh petrichor
and a floor made of broken glasses
that has forgotten to bleed the flesh.
I fed my everlasting reflections
to these broken mirrors
till the floor smelled of my debauchery
of selling facades of appeasement
I made a tryst with myself,
to be brutally honest
to my purpose on this planet.
And so, here am I,
abiding the tryst,
It’s the mellow beginning.
A warm end awaits, I believe.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Dissolve
The sky is a sleeping sea; blessed
with more hues than blue.
I wrote to the unseen wave
that carried the scent of your hair,
washed in rose water, to diffuse slowly and subtly
in this sea of your living memory.
Many poems disappeared since then
eloping with the memories of yours
carried away by these voiceless waves.
The Balcony used to honeysuckles
that bloomed in late-spring, the salt-laden air,
and the noise of impatient seagulls is now
a desolated and unfinished memoir of our time.
I have lost the count of the number of times
my syllables rearrange in these crimson evenings
to whisper your name.
It’s an unending charade to dwell in the past.
but no options satisfy my desire to smell joy
and laughter one last time.
If I could walk into my past tonight,
by drowning myself in a storm near the shore
till my present just wears off somehow.
I would, for you.
Even a thousand times over.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Writings to Heaven 