Imperfect Jigsaw

Like a kaleidoscope, the images flashed through my eyes.

Where memory plucked a piece of time to cherish,

From past travels and adventures and journeys.

An autumn leaf, a blooming cherry blossom and a fresh snowflake,

Shaded with hues left behind by a piece of myself.

.

Slowly chipped away to nothing as I meandered far and wide,

But shaped back whole by the memory capsules I carried back home.

Fixed with mementos, an imperfect solved jigsaw was I.

Ever resolving. Ever evolving.

Ever travelling.

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I stumbled upon this cool challenge “Writespiration” hosted by Sacha Black where the prompt was Kaleidoscope which made me ponder over the numerous trips and journeys and how they change us – and often, shape us.

The Girl Next Door

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?

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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/

Blackout | Empty Recess

Incomprehensible nods of his head,
Quietly daring to raise his voice,
He pushed through with his hand.
A childish old man –
….Just enough sense left,
He watches to see.
To scare this apparition away entirely.
Empty recess for a man,
A form of torture –
….A sermon to be looked down at.

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With Kafka’s fine words in hand, I referred to Page 161 from The Trial. Was amazed at the output.

Today at dVerse, Bjorn is hosting Meeting the Bar where the theme is Blackout Poem. Grab a book-page, black out and type out the rest in order. Voila! Your poem is unraveled… Very very interesting!

The Crust of the Matter

You are not alone crust!

I am the lonely outer slice of the loaf.

The ugly duckling in the basket.

Unceremoniously cut off and

Crudely run through with the unforgiving knife.

Treated like the unwanted step-child.

Pray tell me, what sins am I paying for,

That I never get to play with butter,

That I am cast aside for the dog

or strewn to cajole the fishes,

That I lay forgotten in the trash,

Swapping stories of ungrateful parents

With the orange skins and banana peels.

I am the hard shield protecting the softness,

I am the solid cover for your melting bread bowls,

I am the crispy fragrance inside the welcoming bakery.

… yet, I am needed but never wanted!

A discrimination beyond me,

When I am made of the same substance as every other slice.

Is this how it works in your world too?

Discriminating based on the outside

Even while sharing the same core inside?

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Grace is hosting a lovely gathering of bread talks and poetry at dVerse. I feel really bad for the outer crust of sliced bread which is almost always ignored, so I decided to show my solidarity through this poem.

Let It Go…

A volley of words,

A spur of grimaces,

A wisecrack or two,

A stream of unshed tears.

They were her reluctant weapons,

Inclined to pierce them both.

Every other day and every other night.

No bloodshed. No mortal wounds.

Yet her life drained out.

Nursing a self-inflicted bruise,

She tried to hold on…

But he kept slipping away

Like grains of golden sand.

Like leaves in autumn winds.

It was time

To battle for trust,

To fight and not let go,

To place her faith back in him,

To put a stopper to misunderstandings,

To believe in his love than her nightmares.

No more looking back.

No more burned bridges.

No more drudging up the past.

Only to lose herself in his nook

For a glimmer of hope.

For a chance of future.

For a dream of home.

Badge: Doobster @ Mindful Digressions

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Looking back and bringing up the past often blinds the way to the future. I have no idea how this poem happened when I saw the prompt “back”! First and possibly last poem Stream of Consciousness style.

Written for this week’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt – “back”. Come and join the fun 🙂

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