Author Archives: tapeshwar

Warm touch

It is winter season

Ceiling fan looks
Freezing eyes –
Entreating
All round the four walls of a house

I missed
A summer voice that evening –
that with a longer tongue
Drew a thirst
Looking at a glass of cold water

Remembrance
was
No more remembrance
It was more than silence
Hawking my inner space

What I gained
Through a begging voice
Cost my past season
Never to return

This winter only
A year back
I lost a warm touch of my mother

Wayfarer

Often you come
Rebirthing familiarity
Like a soft breeze
Morning and evening alike
Stretching on a vast plane, and
Pass by my stony pedestal
Imprinting an invisible smile
On my marble face
Reminding me, that
I have been cursed like an iconic structure-
A desert Sphinx
Roaring my naked voice
Half human, half lion
And
Recapitulating my past
I crumple down a non-entity
Knowing –
Wayfarer was I before
Wayfarer I become
Taking chance at your soft breeze

Dungeon to my chime

Nothing glues the sky
Slovenly and dark,
As an eclipse of the sun

Each passing moment
Holds dingy and murky past
Like an acid yellow rain

Slowly and slowly
The seconds ticks by, and
The memory fades in a huff

All wonton wishes, crumbles;
Swollen
Merry making my feet

All treasured casket
by sadness
Are in gloominess, ruled

All joy
fleet away in transitoriness
Holding lesser by my own

Go, go away
Nether to the land –
Dungeon to my chime

Choice of freedom

It is winter
No sound cuts through the
ceiling fan, unmoving by its blades
wheezing the house
All lonely, wide of eyes
It looks down upon
its past beneficiaries:
The sweating men,
The mid day school children,
Mother and perspiring wife, and
The summer guest;
Now are cuddles together
inside coldness of the house

Only a stray thought
Churning deeper inside
Come to grip the ceiling fan –
What is existentialism
But a seasonal upturn
To be free, and
Not to revolve
But to be with the switch
Sartre and its choice of freedom

Nothing extra

He has shawled himself, nakedly
longer into this thorny chilly nights
with trembling fingers
bodily squeezed in cold grip around

Penniless he survives
the onslaught of rising inflation:
Edibles smoulder heavily and a unit
of blood costs more than a bargain
A toothless suitor to his own poverty

Pleasantly he shakes his head quixotically
Shrugging off reality from his thoughts
Believing that tomorrow, when his hospital
will charge a hefty medical bill

He will promptly reply to his doctor
wagging his tail:
Was he not in remembrance, that many a times at the construction site
He had laboured more to his hospital with sweat and salt
And demanded nothing extra