Hospice

Image: pixshark.com
Image: pixshark.com

If you are reading this… it means I am dead.

Know that I was not an old man,

Simply a rapidly ageing one. 

Out of control, I bumped into a disease

I wasn’t yet ready to meet and greet.

Yet became my constant companion.

A part of my life as true as the love

I hold for all of you, my dear ones.

 

Time then caught up with me quickly.

Still you tried not to notice,

The deep creases on my forehead

The new tremors of my hands

The sickly spots on my face

The last strands of my crown

The slowed pace of my stroll

 

There was so much to do and see.

Give my daughters to their husbands,

Play with my future grandchildren,

Hold my wife taking in our empty nest,

Prepare for a future just for us again.

Maybe buy a caravan to go places

Other than the hospital two miles away.

 

Know that I was just an aged body,

A young spirit not ready to leave.

But I saw my son coming to get me –

The one I held only for few moments

Before lowering him six feet under.

He gave me the strength to let go,

And wisdom to keep looking after you..


I witnessed a young man succumbing to health problems at the hospital. He lives on through his wife and two young daughters. Maybe I am trying to capture his thoughts… Abhra has us writing letters at dVerse. Head over to read a few more.

Confessions of a Model

eating-disorders-teens

Visit me sometime, said the dessert plate.

One more slice will not hurt.

No one would know.

 

There’s always room for one more.

One more piece of chocolate.

One more slice of pizza.

One more stick of butter.

 

The mirror became the enemy.

Shrieked at the jiggling flab.

Mocked at the increasing weight.

Fumed at the new plus sizes.

 

The toilet bowl understood though.

Gave the nerve to ram my fingers.

Helped in ignoring the vile taste.

Cheered by showing the flat tummy.

 

My head strayed on its way back home.

Cigarettes were the slimming pills.

Alcohol roped in mock-happiness.

Drugs erased traces of grim reality.

 

My body started giving up on me.

Only dismal escapades in bed.

Blackouts a steady companion.

Painful withdrawal while resisting.

 

Visit me sometime said the toilet bowl.

One more puke will not hurt.

No one would know.

 

But… I would know.


Inspired by some dark conversations and confessions shared with an aspiring model. Anthony at dVerse has us spilling our beans tonight at the pub. Join in and share yours…

 Image Source

Last War for Civilization

Sarkhej Roja | By Piyush Tank
Sarkhej Roja | By Piyush Tank

I write this to warn you. I write this to plead you. 

I write to you what I see.

 

I see…

Her face faintly lined with dry tears,

Playing the memory of her baby

At her breast.

She had brought him into this world,

Amidst bloodshed and bombing

Outside the broken shelter.

 

I see… 

Him growing up in this grimy rust,

A crumbing urban decay of life

To be rebuilt from scratch.

The moral compass of humanity shed,

Taken over by a lust for immortality

At the cost of a mutated body.

 

I see… 

The perseverence of the expectant mothers,

Sole cradles preserving and continuing

The pure form of life.

A grim and desperate crusade to safety,

Sheer will and determination leading

The last war for civilization.

 

I see… 

A mountain made of sacrifices and grit,

The rape of our Mother Earth that

Has been fiercely avenged.

The smoking lands now have tiny footfalls,

Playing with the brave new foliage

Sowing the hope of future.

 

I plead you to hold on to humanity. To warn you of the seduction of greed.

Your Future Self


I cheated here. The mutation, the greed and pregnant women being the last carriers of pure humanity was a dream I had a few weeks back (Yes, my dreams are mostly thriller/sci-fi). Grace at dVerse handed me the perfect prompt where we are writing how weird the future can be.

The Girl Next Door

henna-temporary-tattoo-cancer-patients-henna-heals-2

He missed her.

He missed her off-key singing,

He missed the hymns of her wind-chimes

Dancing at the open windows.

He missed listening to her dreams of Georgetown.

He missed the peals of laughter and

The mischief glinting in her eyes.

He missed the thick amber rush of her hair,

Cascading into the fresh winds.

Curling and framing her impish grins,

Magically reflecting her moods in the softening moonlight.

Just as he had finally mustered the courage

To ask her out on a date,

The windows locked shut and

The lights turned off for weeks.

A Monday morning came with groans and

… Distant off-key singing.

He ran to the balcony in ecstasy to be greeted

By a rainbow of cavorting bandanas at her window.

He saw her face marred with the burns of

Chemo and radiation – spelling one dreaded word.

Yet her eyes glimmered with smug satisfaction,

As she showed off her henna crown.

She looked like hope and optimism,

Her glory of the amber hair replaced by the

Strength flowing from the curl of her smiles

And the shine of her eyes.

More confident than he had ever been,

He managed to ask, dinner and movie tonight?


We are splitting hairs at dVerse tonight, with Anthony setting us to write about hair – literally or metaphorically. Hop in!

Image Source (Do read this article): http://www.boredpanda.com/henna-temporary-tattoo-cancer-patients-henna-heals/

Fresh Start Calling

Image: Totomai Martinez
Fantasy by Totomai Martinez

Bright eyes beamed back in the mirror,

A pink smile bloomed in anticipation,

Betraying only the faintest of quivers

Of the lurking shadows in the reflection.

.

The past demons raised their fiery heads,

A franctic war ensued to douse the flames,

The smoking memories prickled the eyes

As a reminder of the ugliness to be tamed.

.

Anguished tremors took over reality,

A feeling that threatened to smother,

But the shivers will stop; you aren’t alone

With your one hand clasping the other.

.

A spark at the end of the long tunnel

Will light the way for a second innings,

The embers still flicker with past fires

But now, only to ignite new beginnings.


At dVerse, Mary has introduced the lovely ‘phoetry’ of Totomai Martinez where we are using his photography as an inspiration for our poems. The curve of her smile and the intense look of her eyes has guided my words