creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, Poems, Poetry, Writings

Winter Oranges

You sit in the garden
swinging to and fro,
a shining sun
brilliant yellow with warmth
brightly painted oranges in your hand
or are they tangerines?
I do not know
for I was not invited
to this winter feast.

You sit with the others,
peals of laughter,
seeds of conversations
leak into my room somehow.
The pulp of the oranges
dripping from your lips
as you discard the peels
dulled by time
turning bitter and dry.

Let them fall to the dirty ground
uncared for and
I forget their existence, the sun
and the warmth.

I remember us,
the pulp stained lips
and a thirst for never missing such feasts,
where your eyes inch this close to me.
where the breath turns citrus in unison.

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.

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

beauty, creative-writing, Desire, Fiction & Poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, think

Swallowing Sabbaticals

Warmth is a long sedimentary pause,
sip it,slowly,
through eyes that have learned
the craft of forgetting.

Too much of an interlude
and the spaces around you
start spewing nostalgic visions.

The Sabbaticals turn to never ending
I turn to a normality I feared:
A morning in April with no rain.

I should have woken up,
when It was winter,
and my heart still booming
with the summer’s dream

– Shashank Bhardwaj

beauty, dream, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, Writings

Pebbles and Rain

It is quite obvious,
The way your tongue will feel
while reading this title:
slithering itself in a wet void.

Your nose now dreams of a petrichor,
The toes shall yearn for the wet grass.
Fingertips aching to scratch the moss
of the exiled pebbles somewhere,

How just a few words,
could tease your senses.

Yet you use a picture to interpolate
your creations


© Shashank Bhardwaj

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

Write – Rant

With sometimes eyes closed
and sometimes open,
you see the unseen
and unsee the seen.

Your words lie somewhere in between
the voices you cannot condemn openly
and the voices that push you away
from getting soaked up from this sunlight of reality.

You are divided between writing something truly honest
and writing something that masks the truth
so perfectly, it becomes a voiceless waterfall falling
over these incumbent eardrums of the readers.

You hold the might to culture a society
and rationalize its view, shielding it from
the tranny, oppression and unequal treatment.

So next time when you look in the mirror,
remember you are a needle lost in the grass,
you can either sew the ground to cover up
whatever is wrong,
or you can stab others to let them find out themselves.


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

Walking through the Mirror

It happens sometimes
between winter and the sultry summer,
my words and visions refuse to mate,
no amount of alcohol urges them
to this universal transfixion
on a piece of a patient paper

I have no choice left,
I visit the dusted mirror
in my inhospitable washroom again
the vortex of time swallows me inherently,
as I fall through the voiceless oceans
and painstaking cheap bars
that are out of beer.

I walk through the autumnal rains
where the birds have learned to hide
and the leaves refuse to be touched.
The maidens are no longer beautiful,
Houses full of Japanese crockery
and European paintings
are half submerged in filthy ponds
to be admired by filthy fishes
with filthy brains.

The kids are running and laughing
on the roads but I can’t see their faces.
The dogs no longer bark, but they have
tears of joy and my hands have forgotten to
pet these loyal creatures. Their tails don’t wag now.
They refuse to acknowledge my existence.

I see my twin somewhere.
The only one who smiles back at me.
Contented but not happy,
his eyes are his stories,
his soft hands; devoid of typing
are his unwritten poems.
I have to kill him.

Before he swims out of this vortex.
Before he swims into me.
Before he falls in love with himself.