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Tapeshwar Prasad Yadav

Tapeshwar Prasad Yadav

Poet Of The World
Nationality: India
Email: tapeshwara@gmail.com

Biography
Tapeshwar Prasad
Short Bio (3rd Person)
 
Tapeshwar Prasad has authored blend of five surrealistic and realistic poetry books, and has been featured in Camel Saloon (U.K.), Cordite Poetry Review (Australia), Crushing Waves (USA),  The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry (USA), Spillwords (USA), INNSÆI-International Journal of Creative Literature for Peace and Humanity (IJCLPH) (India), Literaryyard (India), thebeautifulspace-a journal of mind art and poetry (UK), Episteme (India), Setumag (USA), poetic passions (India), differenttruths (India), the galway review (Ireland), Umbilical Chords (India), inklinks (India), Scaling Heights (India), openthemagazine (India), The Significant Anthology (India), Learning and Creativity (India), vox poetica (New Jersey, USA), Quail Bell (Brooklyn, USA), Mad Swirl (USA), readomania (India), Pangoline Review (Mauritius), Muse India (India), Lothlorien Poetry Journal  (USA), The Fictional Café (USA) and many others.  He has b ...
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Horizon
I have taken seven anchorage 
to my boat.
Yet it undulate 
by the oceanic waves,
tide of some magical pull
in hours of deeper solitude -
Horizon upon horizon 
Rugged Path
I do not remember
how you etched your name 
on the empty branches of the mountain trees
where once 
I used to shine by the first streak of the golden dawn
 
The old wall of my house 
has crumbled now
The poem written on it gone.
 
What memory stays; brays
through ...
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Whistle
I whistle within
seven solitary notes
from a bygone era,
hovering
on the fringes
of this present moment.
 
A maverick -
a moon
from some deeper, unknown world -
rises, luminous,
and lets its quiet light
settle over me.
 
© Tapeshwar Prasad
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Portrait of Silence

Portrait of Silence

I took a painting brush
to paint
a Portrait of Silence
on a blank canvas.

Hue erupted
from the tip of the brush.

Little did I know
that Silence
would make noise.

© Tapeshwar Prasad
Footprints

Footprints 

I walk solitarily
by the funeral fire -
cracking.

He comes by the footprints,
ashes
dabbed in memory.

© Tapeshw
ar Prasad 
To Braid the Night

To Braid the Night 

I braided my nights
on the eyebrows of yesterday 
It was not as the
nightingale would be 
in look and voice;
but soots of yesteryears
black and suffocating 
coming from a chimney of yore
bricks and broken;
Yet I lifted my eyes
that was
gnawing my ...
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