Tag Archives: Poems

beauty, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Poems, poetry, Writings

Taste of Insecurity – Haibun

I lie on the ground, the grass is still wet from the fog.
I turn and turn, the rose petals are still shameless, it’s like the dying autumn, massacred by the winter.
I seek you in the dream I always had, near a valley, by the sea, the coral reefs too stubborn to die. Taste that water, the blue elixir. Don’t just leave me with a sense of insecurity, It feels like a packet of cigarettes from a night you cannot remember on your tongue. The seagulls will laugh on a specie with no control over heart. I dream of you for your voice is the dream : subtle, pure and forgiving. The lands of the beach are a sign to find to a spot to sleep when the moon drinks itself to brightness. I turn into a universe that kisses the galaxy. So close but so imagined.

My heart, flower now,
Crush it for the taste once
Touch me tonight ,once.

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creative-writing, Heart, Life, Poems, poetry, Writings

Light

And who do you become?
by swallowing a light deciphered
through a stained glass,
For its crystals are lattices of memory,
that have caressed your ghostly voiceless passages.
It breaks in an afternoon, you never noticed ,
The memory vaporizes
and before you know, it smells as if
someone remembers you in a time you forgot.

Do you become a ghost, savoured by unfiltered light, blinded to the earth by a touch that warms?
Is this how they mix, fear and nostalgia
to a heart that is child to its own and aloof of its lineage?

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beauty, dream, Fiction & Poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Art

If all the beauty in the world
ceases to exist someday,
You would still be the unwritten poem for me,
The one I could never finish.

For I fear, that if I do so,
You would be lost forever in this world,
in the unseen books and the untouched pages
and in the hands of all those admirers,
whose fingertips have forgotten,
the art of patience.

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creative-writing, nature, Poems, Poetry, think

Color of Love

Last night, I sojourned in the warm fields of cherry blossom,
letting my silence convolve with the voiceless dreams.

I cried in a language, I never heard before.
The memory of my voice absconds
for a few days.
Leaving only regretful notes, of unending sabbaticals.

Nature never speaks, I have observed.
It just pours a volume of voices from its belly,
into a pot full of colors,
to melt and coalesce
for our eyes to fathom in silence.

So the next time, we lie on the bed,
don’t speak, just observe all of my colors
as I trace the aching fan dying out above.

Whisper to me then gently, if you wish,
of how does the grey mix in the volumes of smiles bright?
And yet never turns loud enough
for us to tremble and dissolve
in one another,
painting our silence
into this unspeakable color of love.

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

Deciphering a Red Silence.

Every ray of sunlight,
is a drop of warmth
melted by god’s eyes

You, a silver mirror,
That can glitter my hand even in the darkness,
as if a thousand ants enjoying a living feast,
for their heart’s are as restless as a lover’s hunger for voice.

In my dreams, each night,
Someone cleaves the sky with no voice.
It becomes a darkroom where I fumble with trembling hands,
my memories dipped in a pool of questions,
like a photograph being developed in a room full of darkest red wines.

I wake up to a room devoid of light,
wishing to be in a subway where no one cares for your existence if you have learned to forget your hands.
I sleep wishing the subway leads to nowhere.
A silence is a powerful noise,
When shall our ears act like our eyes?

– Shashank Bhardwaj

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creative-writing, dream, Poems, Poetry, poetry, Prose

Rotten Bones and Displaced Heart

There is no shame in choking the uneasiness
out of one’s sleep.

My larynx melts
when it is this dark.
The neck dissolves itself,
into a pool of subtle cold regrets

Silence drapes my bones
in a shroud of voiceless memories
rotting them, turning them
into the color of a fragile copper abandoned
in an unnamed graveyard.

It is basically a practice of perfection,
to death: the permanent sleep,
the unanswered question stabs
the unasked answer,
The god with no eyes and a displaced heart
just sighs.

– Shashank Bhardwaj

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