The Wooden Bench Poem by Lopamudra Mishra

With a twisted and scornful smile,
the broken old bench near the gate greets us for a while.
Its tattered limbs and discoloured face attracts everyone towards its surface.
Speaks loudly the volume of by-gone stories in a beat,
I become nostalgic with its heat.
Flashing memories of my grandpa,
sitting in it and narrating the tales of freedom era,
grandma's idling there and unfolding truthful story of scary years,
adds the flora!
Once anxiously I asked my grandpa -
'Why he loved to sit in the wooden bench most? '
Paused a little and then he said.. 'here I share my feelings to my friends'.
Henceforward I started liking it from every sphere,
linked all my golden memories with it in cheers.
The bench always giggles with laughter of ours,
its treasury filled with pile of churning stories of ours.
Evening snacks and tea by its side,
with each family member remaining close by its sight.
Pours out their daily ordeal keeping it as their witness for their plight.
It gulps down every details and prepares itself in a clean image,
for next day in quite.
Here grandpa used to read newspaper loud, we try to avoid
his boisterous shout.
His blurry vision smells our fishy stroll,
then the preachy lesson starts and ends with groan.
Now memories are rusted like the broken bench,
at time lingers for refresh.
Grandpa and grandma are no more,
bench is silent with all its core.
Unwanted, undeserved it stands now,
with its spreaded warm hands,
fluttering wings of time categorised it as waste product!