Occasionally I resort to write prose which might not make much sense. I let out thoughts and write as they come. Afterwards I try to put a semblance of order to those seemingly disjointed sentences.
His world has gone awry
Rock stays steady albeit a little tilted
Only a few souls under that umbrella
A family is deep in conversation oblivious to all elseA lonely boy watches them with deep longing
He is too far away to even listen to the sounds
Any movement in the vicinity is felt by him in his bones
Silence seeps into each pore
Dotted horizon fails to please him
Surprisingly there are not many chirping birds
He listlessly observes an ant climbing on to his right foot
How far would it go
Should he flick it away
Would it return to its home
How would the ant know where he lives
What good that would doWhy do questions become iron hooks, which trap and then tear
Suddenly, he strikes his head
It is his birthday
He has no place to go, no place to call his ownNow dates hold no meaning for him"That thought releases him from his sorrow"
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Photo Credits: Cafe Writing: Option Three.
[Fiction] Friday Challenge:
Write a scene that ends with your character saying:
'I never want to see you again.'
Friday 5 words: floss, intense, prey, cease, swallow for January 11, 2008.holding this way, that way he flosses.intense pain suddenly cease-as a tooth has fallen preyto vigorous brushing.
For a while now, he had been unableto swallow half chewed food.he looks at that defenseless tooth.gleefully throws it into waste bin shouting at top of his voice,
“I never want to see you again”
However much I tried, I couldn't do this right. Even then I am posting a few American sentences taken together in a verse form.my stomach rumbles at the sound of rice crispy packet being pulled aparti gobble it up hungrily, crunchiness disappears into my hungry mouthteeth grind it to a fine pulp, tongue savouring it as never beforefunny noises in my belly stop suddenly to be taken over by digestive soundswhy do our very own natural bodily functions embarrass us no end?
GossipNaive
Station
for a worldly wise maleit was a blow to his ego.defending himself was beneath his station. how could he been so naïve?with clenched teeth, closed fist-he lay down seeking oblivion.Eyes were squeezed shut, tears lurked at edges-sleep was not to come.when they took him to asylum
he was beyond gossip.
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As it was BAFAB week from Jan 1-7, I bought books for my nephews, nieces and friends. I donated 50+ assorted books to an old age Home. I suppose I was just plain lucky to win three books I had put my name for. Thanks Melody, Dewey and Rhinoa. I look forward to read those. "The Road" was a coveted one!The Road by Cormac McCarthy from Melody's Reading Corner Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher from Dewey Magical tales by R J Stewart from Rhinoa's Ramblings
I am a symbol of what I would become-fragments fraying eventually. one day all I would have is moment, when I do forget my own essence. It takes courage to master past, present, and future. I find myself in a colourless void of hope- a horizon I would never reach. I am a mirror, which only sees your image, reflected against my anatomy, echoing human intuition. I do not fit into my own identity. aimlessly I meander around a life worth living,I will wake up, put on walking shoes, take off to become what I will be- every moment along the way satisfying me. no longer a inert observer of my world- breaking out of these cocoons, patiently constructing doubts into walls, sans past, sans present, sans future. remind me to drop you a letter.
standing in front of my plush wall to wall wardrobeI search for perfect apparel. choosing one, rejectingyet again. colour is not suitable, pattern is too badtexture is obsolete. cotton scrapes, scratches smooth skin, synthetics give me rashes, silk simply slips over.ochre is passé, mauve is dumb, green is down market lavender is ugh, white contrasts with my dusky tone.a colossal pile on bed, waiting, begging to be picked.no second glance, no second chance, despondently I find nothing appropriate to go well with my mood.cursing myself to stupidity, I struggle to be so cool-words in my head, nothing to wear. Whomsoeversaid women have too many clothes- was a big fool.
Do not forget to ride the Monday Poetry Train
For someone who seldom makes resolutions for the New Year, I certainly have goals. Those are not entirely for this year. My elusive goals are not visible to any one even if I achieve those. I wish to grow in many dimensions and material aspect does not even enter into my plans. I strive to be a better person in all ways each day. I have this inner urge to learn. What I do not know, I diligently teach myself. I am grateful to my genetic make up that I got good genes as I have the aptitude to do anything if I put my mind to it. For me the newness does not happen in a new year. It happens each day of my life. I try not to reflect on the negatives. I cannot be vibrant at all times, but I need not be pensive either.Getting into the specifics, writing is one important aspect. Those days I cannot write, I make myself write. I set myself small goals and try to touch those. Reading too is very important for me. I plan to read lot more than what I did last year. Then there are some areas in my personal front that I need to redress and change. More important, I need to discipline my mind to accomplish all that I seek. I need to curb on my impulsiveness, which has landed me into trouble in many ways. I have won over my surge of anger to some extent. I will go on doing whatever I can for abused children. Maybe more than what I have been doing. Each day is new, each experience is new. Hence, our perception has to be to according to what is going on each moment. Renewing ourselves is what we are doing at any given moment of time.
realist was gone for a while, replaced by a stranger, wildly fanatical tapping at growing moss at her feet, reminiscing forgotten events- drowsily so .tired to core, crumples with thudon hard ground- distorted image as if engraved on vellum. drasticmeasures frantically needed to get her back on track of normal life.“every so often, all one needs is rest-along with books of fiction on bedside”
as a last resort, I write to your esteemed paper,kind sir. never having addressed to an editor,please do excuse my very poor language skills.lest I forget what I need to say, drain water spillsinside my apartment block, despite repeatedremainders, authorities have remained seatedglued to their chairs, wholly deaf to my entreatystink is too much to bear, shedding my brevitynow I want needful to be done pressuring themvia your printed media, drawing a bit of shameon their demeanors, so they dig deeply into soillaying sewer line ten feet under, so that their toilwould not go wasted- all that muddy stench is rested!I now end it here, before I go on about more dribblehope you publish my epistle as soon as possible.
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This is a true account. Sewage water was flowing through our Apartments block and no one was ready to do anything. I contacted the local papers. After they published it, the pipelines were repaired in no time. I obviously did not write it in a poem form!
My first post for 2008. Another unpoem. My muse needs to be shaken, I suppose.
Button
Luck
Pretend
walking around that parapet,i chew on my pencil pretendingto look like a scrivener.fixing my eyes on a distal point-superficially plucking on my gilt button,thinking luck is on my side-i trace outlines on those loose sheets-squiggles, which do not make sense.“who said it was easy to decipher mind?”
