Frost. Quiver. Echo. Long. Forsake

This post is again courtesy the prompt words given by the very kind S.T.J on Twitter. I owe whatever I write these days to the kindness of her being. In an ideal world I should have written a book having all this encouragement but the blocks in my mind always get the better of me.

 

The frost-bitten birds

flock eastwards,

flapping their feeble wings

holding maps in their eyes

of the warmth of loving waters.

They dip and dance,

nest and mate,

before seeing their love life curtailed.

Their tiny hearts quiver and quail

with every echo of a gunshot.

They cannot do life nor love

and are left longing for a place

they will never forsake.

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High, Hermit, Hook, Heal

I’ve written it mouthfulls and am yearning for brevity but am liking the start of the process. Hope things will improve with practice and time. The post is again courtesy the kind one I’ve mentioned in the last blog 🙂

The sky falls flat in my feet

as I pluck star after a blazing star;

I blow them cold, so they cannot char

your finger-tips.

Then I take you high,

leaving my ego with the townsfolk.

_______________________________________________________________________

I lose you somewhere in the ether;

your eyes, kohled with star-dust

turn blind on me.

_______________________________________________________________________

I’m a hermit,

living another time and space

beyond the din of the earth’s ridicule,

even the reach of your apathy.

________________________________________________________________________

Yet, on certain moonless nights

a Polaris keeps me hooked to the fire;

a yearning comes to crush it kohl,

to heal a wound,

to grace a pair of eyes.

 

 

 

Serendipity. Serenade. See. Seduce

I requested Samira to help me write something with prompts. She was kind enough to respond with the titled words that I tried to build an idea upon, notwithstanding it coming out rough and very raw but I could be forgiven for one can rarely be fluent after taking such long intervals of inactivity in writing.

Life barely walked,

in the desert veins,

trudging along the travails

till it reached the sweet serendipity

of an oasis –

heart –

soaked in the monsoon

of your thoughts;

sedate, a touch shade

your eyes.

The beats played a serenade

as though to lure you back.

See, how rich is this abode,

seducing the red in veins

to mix in your lips.

An Exercise

Cav is generous in help and I’m indebted for his gesture. He gave me a theme of ‘memory’ with words like ‘grove’ ‘midgets/midges’ ‘tingle’ ‘dusk’ and ‘window’ to be used in the development of a concept. I tried it abliet with a frozen mind resisting to unshackle and came up with a raw, rushed up (I wasn’t hastened, though) story. Here it is. It will be shaped, reshaped and even written off, in light of you people’s suggestions.

Sitting poles apart

in his cozy room

he would crave to be

a part of the scence

when he’d watch

on his tv screen,

the glistening Himalayan peaks

kissing the Indus-blue cheeks

of the sky that would blush

into all the possible hues.

As if a speck of a mettle

enchanted towards a gigantic magnet

he found himself moving

towards the mountaneous range.

Standing at the feet

of the Nanga Purbut

he was a midget

filled with the naivete

to surmount love.

Pinching the body

of the slumbering beast

he crawled up

unaware of the pitfalls

waiting under the sheets

of white snow.

The arrival of dusk

emboldened the air

that lanced through

his mountaineering gear

as he was tingled

before being gobbled

by a cavernous hole.

It all happened in a trice;

his body writhed like a fish

in protest of decption,

his heart blissed out

and froze like that

of the beloved

and his mind rolled

in a backward motion

showing him the glimpse

of his wife sitting across

the window pane

staring deep at the

grove where they’d play

hide and seek.