shloka-shankar
Shloka Shankar is a freelance writer residing in India. Her work appears in over two dozen international anthologies including The Dance of the Peacock, Emanations IV, The Living Haiku Anthology, Family Matters, and publications by Paragram, Silver Birch Press, Minor Arcana Press, Harbinger Asylum, Kind of a Hurricane Press and Writing Knights Press among others. Her poems, erasures, haiku & tanka have appeared in numerous print and online journals. She is also the editor of the literary and arts journal, Sonic Boom. / / Links: / / http://sonicboomjournal.wix.com/sonicboom / / https://www.facebook.com/pages/Shloka-Shankar-a-rasikas-musings/745965042120215
Life stagnates as people start trickling back to their houses. Some look forward to the expectant faces of their children, while some others dread their churlish wives. As they saunter along doggedly, the day’s events play like a broken record in their heads – a mimicry of sanity. A crow caws somewhere as though lovesick. Streetlights come on and fireflies hover in a daze. Bicycles, cricket bats, and skipping ropes are lugged back home by children who are repeatedly beckoned by overbearing mothers. Almost in a trance, the buzz of the day fades away as a feigned tranquility descends.
molten skyline…
an earthworm buries
itself deeper
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
under the tubercular sky
we wonder where to go
the pulse of midnight rain
one times one
picture postcards
of broken hearts
iron dreams
the alchemy of memories
in a gyzym of consciousness
forever was never till now
the everyanything of conversation
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
the walls are the same.
not much has altered
since the clock struck
twelve.
alone in bed,
watching a display
of fireworks
serve as the baton
to usher in
another year
in a new garb,
custom made
for the most part.
long-forgotten
adrenaline reminds
me
of all those things
taken for granted
the previous year.
lists
and
resolutions
eat away at the corners
of my mind;
a tab
that stands
unaccounted for.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
She bares her soul
to no one —
a façade for each mood
that infests her thoughts
like the plague;
reticence stalks her
every now and then,
as she tries shying away
from her darkest
secrets ripe as cherries
hanging from the bough…
a charade of whims
planted mysteriously
on her sealed lips.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC