Betrayal

Pic courtesy Mom Junction

Despair dropped like dead weight on her shoulders
the pain of desertion writ on her drooping lips
her stricken heart too smote to smoulder
her vacant eyes on a distant horizon affixed

the pain of desertion writ on her drooping lips
soft whispers lay entrapped in her dilapidated heart
her vacant eyes on a distant horizon affixed
never sleeping or blinking, continuing to smart

soft whispers lay entrapped in her dilapidated heart
voiceless screams tapping vociferously in her chest
never sleeping or blinking, continuing to smart
her eyes; nothing but twin pools of morass of emptiness

voiceless screams tapping vociferously in her chest
her stricken heart too smote to smoulder
her eyes; nothing but twin pools of morass of emptiness
despair dropped like dead weight on her shoulders.

A Pantoum on the theme of abandonment for David’s W3 where yours truly is the POW.

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Ode to my handmaiden

Pic my own

As tears unbidden from my poor eyes fall
I wipe them surreptitiously with your help
sobs, suppressed smiles, snot; you have seen ’em all
your wee bit does effortlessly emotions schlep
from covering heads to wiping sweat
from the Grecian times to the Victorian and the present
an integral part of dressing you have been
ne’er minding the grime or being wet
luxuriating being doused in a heady scent
often carrying billet-doux unseen!

O dear handkerchief, often your ends I have knotted
to not forget a knotty affair
and when I was foolishly besotted
I did drop you with discreet flair
sometimes it led to utterly dubious assumptions
sometimes I received the response I craved
sometimes you lay in oblivion in the dirt
I rescued you then with chicanery and gumption
my attempts at coquetry you valiantly braved
keeping you close to bosom helped whenever I was hurt

This generation knows only how to use and throw
upstart paper napkins and tissues scarce can take your place
they may be fancy and pricey and convenient on the go
your embroidered and laced appearance embodies class and grace
from being neatly tucked in my school uniform pocket
to your now delicately perfumed presence in my purse
dear handkerchief, I cannot tell you what you mean to me
whenever I leave home, you, I do not forget
through thick and thin and better and worse
you have been my companion, my best buddy.

Written for Eugi’s moonwashed weekly prompt and David’s W3 to Mich’s prompt to write an ode to our handkerchief.

Sharing at dVerse OLN.

A pillow talks

Pic courtesy Hush Blankets

I am the frightener of your monsters
the listener of your rants and outbursts
the keeper of all your secrets
the soaker of your silently falling tears
the generator of festooned dreams
the slayer of occasional nightmares

You are the master of mercurial moods
a purveyor of puerile pranks
a dictator of directionless diktats
a lounger lazing languidly
a hugger, a dreamer, a procastinator

But there can be no denying
whether I am dressed in crisp cottons or silky softness
I am the best bedmate you can ever have!

Written for David’s W3 where David is the POW himself. He has asked us to write a poem from the perspective of an inanimate household object, using personification.

Love & life

(From Shutterstock)

Love and life not always synonymous
yet why does one
always think
life is
love

Life
a gift
not promised
often unfair
but one can’t tell her, “go just get lost life”!

Written for David’s W3 (where the POW D Avery has asked us to write tetractys) and for Eugi’s moonwashed weekly prompt.

Wishing Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate and to the rest, a happy Sunday! My home is all topsy-turvy due to the renovation work going on. I will be unable to blog for a couple of week, so wishing you all the very best for 2023. Warm hugs to all braving storms and freakish cold weather. Stay warm, stay safe.

Ma boy

Grubby
curious
child

nosey
touches
to eat

moves
gaily to
music

never
pompous
quiet

smart
bookish
naive

happy
go lucky
my boy

makes
his mama
proud

We are writing atoms on children/childhood for David’s W3 where David is POW.

Also for Eugi’s moonwashed musings weekly prompt.

Pickle-tickle

(From Cooking Light)

Winter time
pickling greens and roots
freshness and
succulence
for long-lasting endurance 
main ingredients

Wash, pat dry
then trim chop and cut
let them bask,
sun and shrink
gently rub with seasoning
let steep in the brine

Sunbathing
for a week or two
sweating then
plumping up
in own juices with spices
sweet, sour, savoury

Tart flavours
a firm favourite
pungency
fieriness
lip-smacking taste enhancers
my soul a-tingle

Piquant notes
palate a-tickle
ecstasy
redefined
dance merrily on my tongue
am satiated

Utter bliss
tingling tanginess
sensational
sensations
a gustatory gala
so gratifying

Tart flavours
Palate a-tickle
Pungency
Succulence
A gustatory gala
Am satiated

(From Vogue India)

Written for David’s W3. POW Sylvia says:

• Write a shadorma, up to seven stanzas long;
• Topic: Favorite food/s to prepare and/or eat

Giving thanks

Winter’s indulgence
indulgence of life’s transience
transient tastes triumph

triumphant nature
nature’s gifts reaped together
to gather to toast

toast, waffles and jam
jampacked is family do
doing mother’s will

Written for Sadje’s wdys, Eugi’s moonwashed musings weekly prompt and David’s W3 (a chain verse of at least 3 haiku including the word mother, by Aishwarya). Sharing at dVerse OLN.

Happy Thanksgiving to all those who celebrate.

Will, would, who knows!

From Shutterstock

Will my words sit timidly
on the threshold of life forever
hesitant, directionless and self-deprecating
or like restless vagabonds
traverse the unlikeliest of places
wandering on the lips of strangers unknown

What determines the life of a song
is it the number of times it is sung
or when its relevance surpasses time
to flow into eternity
morsels of soul wrapped in metaphors
do they satiate other souls
or meet disdain and curl up and wither
trampled by indifference

From these tattered, stitched up verses
would anyone try to piece my lies
or would they lie gathering dust
under a stash of showy strophes
would some wise eye espy the thread
of truth discreetly running through
or would they be dismissed as trite tedious tropes

Spring-like these words gurgle on their own
they know not what they want
except that they want to flow
my pen gives them the spotlight that they crave
though I crave not the spotlight
a mystery, an enigma I claim not to be
I do have a yen for the luxury of anonymity.

Written for David’s W3 where POW Larry has asked us to incorporate chiasmus in our poem, for Eugi’s moonwashed weekly challenge.

Sharing at dVerse OLN.

Choking on air

(Delhi yesterday)

No clear skies, no moon, no stars
only haze hangs low over the concrete maze
verdant greens wear a sooty grey suit
malevolent air chokes the throat
babies and elders are trapped indoors
effing cough refuses to subside, making everyone
reach for the ubiquitous air purifiers!

Written for David’s W3 to Paula’s prompt to write an acrostic on November.

You can read about Delhi’s pollution here and here.

Autumnal musings

1.

Warm ochre and orange blooms
vibrant hued festivities
season of sweetness overload.

2.

Yellowed leaves gently falling
providing warmth to the earth
from the oncoming chilly winter.

3.

Smog chokes ragged breaths
descending greyness
settles cozily in the lungs.

4.

Hot, spiced pumpkin latte
welcoming the darker half
a spook fest on the cards.

5.

Autumn’s celestial bodies
cast a golden mellow glow
rites and rituals and fruitfulness.

Written for Sadje’s wdys, David’s W3 to Sylvia’s prompt (a cadralor on autumn) and Eugi’s moonwashed weekly challenge.

Sharing it at dVerse OLN.