Wednesday Prose Poem: what’s in a promise?

Image by TerriC on Pixabay


Little baby blue eggs on the windowsill. All lined up, softly shaded, the sun’s rays bouncing off their edges, painting dream sequences on the walls.

You gather them up gently, those little baby promises. Gently, to protect them. Encase them tenderly in little makeshift nests, pad them with cottony…

Wednesday Prose Poem: something about pressure

Image by pisauikan on Pixabay

January 11. Her death anniversary.
November 27. Her birthday.
January 16. Your wedding anniversary.

The pressure starts building days before each date.

One central spot in my pre-frontal cortex blazing hot, the pounding in my head obliterating the painstakingly constructed delicate filigree of my presence.

I’ve released all the negative…

Wednesday Prose Poem: the sound of a crack

Image by Stewardesign on Pixabay

Who knew such a slim and small woman could have that much strength in her hands.

Hair always neat in a long plait, our Sanskrit teacher could have passed off as any other woman next door.

But, well hidden under that seemingly ordinary exterior was a knuckle-cracking demon. …

Wednesday Prose Poem: take what you want

Image by qimono on Pixabay

The piles of deluded pens misspell on purpose because they have nothing better to do.

An idle mind is a devil’s workshop, they said. There are rules, they said. Study hard, work hard, they said — that’s the guaranteed path to happiness.

Keep at it, they said. Oh, and also…

Saturday Prompt: Dear Chaos…

Image by Schroeder75 on Pixabay

I cannot help but address you by your nickname, even if it means earning your wrath, dear Chaos.

I know you like being addressed by your knighted name, Entropy. Loosely reminiscent of Entropia, the land you come from.

The land of movement, energy, dynamism.

Yet — also the land of…

This happened to me

Image by thommas68 at Pixabay

There’s a noose around my neck. I can’t see very much. Certainly, a noose — but strangely, very gentle. It doesn’t fray or chafe my neck.

It’s so dark.

The noose is warm, and strangely rounded at the end.

That’s not what a noose should be shaped like, my sleepy…

Paroma Sen

“Do not go gentle into that good night, but rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

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