Procrastination and other poems. Poet Akshaya Pawaskar


I can do it anytime, or never at all 
Myriad the mind’s vacillation and 
Undying languor or apprehension 
How the bills pile and dishes crawl 
To sink all greasy? How the screen 
Blinks from one Channel to another 
And inbox a litter of nagging puppy 
Eyes stare and grow old and tired 
Of waiting to be opened and freed 
From their duty of galvanizing that 
which sits on a couch thinking that 
Bulb in the room will grow bright on 
its own and the mold on the window 
pane will immunize us to the doom 
of procrastination. 


This is a hallowed touch, 
The caress, the matted hair fondled 
With blood or grime 
This is hallowed pieta, 
Where a dying god lies in the lap 
Of his mother and daughter 
This is a hallowed torch 
And grief, enraged Demeter’s search 
For return of her offspring, 
This is a hallowed organ, 
Bat shaped and shedding blood 
Until a pulsing seed sprouts 
This is a hallowed portal, 
That knows not its selfless resilience 
Until a tiny mouth cries 
This is a hallowed bosom, 
Where the ambrosia flows, serous 
Than white, river Styx. 
Not an object, not a gilded figurine 
it’s a temple sacrosanct.

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