Tag Archives: Fiction & Poetry

beauty, Death, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry, sadness

A Mermaid’s Past

sucide-into-well

She only remembers the drowning.

the smell of the candles
put out with tears is a forgotten memory.

the wrath of the Poseidon trembled the sky,
stars disappeared in the hidden asylum of unseen alleys.

A dissolution of an ominous fear
of losing someone in a never-ending darkness.

A leap in the deep abyss
black hues massacres the blue
body with a heavy heart drowns
till the anguish warms the water.

At night, the colors resume their hibernation
in the lake of rainbows.

Search for the love, who promised
to come back now tastes like bitter salt.

a sharp tinge of regret on tongues
that lick the icicles of truth.

 

To be Continued.

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beauty, creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Haiku, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry

Autumnal Rain – Haibun

autumn_rain_in_the_park_xi_by_pandi1818-d4fqbin

The dusted road bathes today, for the sky bleeds its white blood. Every drop is a wondrous suicide, a deliberate fall for love of joy. Who knew that the washed away soil would take everyone back to their dreams. We used to chase the rainbows till we forget each other’s faces. We floated and tasted these colours.Sometimes we carried them in our pockets for the night. Rain kept the fallen dead leaves alive. They would float to their shores to be picked by lovers, dried and kept in books. We were so young then.We could have been gods of our lives then, but everyone now takes these autumnal rains for granted.

dead red leaves float to
carry the smell of wet earth,
please take me along.

 

 – A Haibun is a Traditional Japanese Poetry that includes a Prose with a Haiku. The First Paragraph is a prose and the second one is a haiku.

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beauty, Desire, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Poems, Poetry, Writings

A Few

It was good in the old days.
The poets were poets.
The writers were writers.
The artists were artists.

Now we have men and women
who under a comfortable roof
and closed doors try to look different
to this world.

They paint, write and create when they feel like.
They call it a Balance.
A Hobby.
A Stress relieving mechanism.
It makes them feel different.

Differently dead from one another.
Dead throughout their days
from the everlasting stupor
induced by the attention of others.
It ends in their dreams I feel.

They don’t have desperation
nailing their back.
The desperation to create something
that shall last a thousand years.

It comes in a few people only.

those who just care about creating.
those who dissolve their souls
on papers and paint it with their blood.

They do have the same passion as others.
But what makes them really different
from others is that they know
passion is like Gasoline.

You have to pour it over yourself
and start the fire
to really feel it.

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creative-writing, dream, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, Writings

A Storm Cloud – I

a kiss of doom
wrapped in dark hues
brews voicelessly.

the light swallows itself.

winds slither through sky
as wolves howl on the new moon.
stars watch mutely.

the tandava begins.

fury of light
bursts the sky in million pieces,
alms of thundering echoes
for mortals under the bed.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

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creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Heart, Life, lost, Poems, poetry, sadness

How does it Feel?

To be close to the ocean
but cannot get your feet wet.

To the smell the salty air
but cannot breathe.

To see the crimson horizon
but cannot remember.

To see your dog lying next to you
but cannot pet him.

To conjure all the words for the ocean
but cannot write.

To sleep well all your life
but cannot dream.

To love someone all your life
but cannot have them.

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creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry, Writings

Tell Them

When they ask you,
and I know they will someday.

Tell them it was for
the slice of sky
that smelled like your
tepid past, for nostalgia
reverberating as consensual
currents:
like a dream is forgotten
at the end of the night.

tell them it was for
the glimpse of nature:
the pregenable beauty,
for your assailable heart;
though after being enclosed
in those bony rib-cages,
I knew they would
melt every time
at the slightest touch of you.
It was for that touch.

tell them it was for
end of the everlasting hunger,
an conclusion to this unending madness,
to describe a whirlpool
of blurred visions,
emasculating every second
by the dark whispers in broad
daylight.

When they ask,
Why you started writing,
Tell them it was for yourself only.
For your demons and their exorcisms
performed ritually twice a day.
Tell them it would remain that way.
Forever and ever.

 

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