Short story

I watch him from behind the cover of a bush.

He is entranced, in some faraway place my mortal eyes cannot perceive. There is the tiniest hint of an upward curve to his mouth. Not quite a smile, but certainly the suggestion of inner joy.

There’s a glow behind his eyelids, making me want to partake of the cinematic unfolding happening behind the screen of his closed eyes.

Again, I am to be left out.

He is emaciated, the skin on his lower ribs clinging on with desperation for life support, yet with a loving intensity that silences and stills…

Wednesday Prose Poem: twisted chronology

When did it start?

Perhaps when we kept walking past the tacky gold chandelier, mumbling: we must replace. But never getting around to it.

Tacky life and tacky relationship always in the way.

Distaste breeding chasm like a pair of pliers prying apart the fixture.

By then it can’t be fixed of course.

Take away the tacky chandelier but you can’t take away the tacky everything-else. Which is now tattered in addition to being tacky.

And so, we stage another Regal Walk-away.

The solution to all problems. Just walk away. Look back, memorize, breathe, leave. The code to emotional untangling.

Saturday Poetry Prompt: out of doors

The river moves. And you move, just like the river.

Indomitable. Undeterred. Resolute.

You are challenged, time and time again. And you rise to it, each time.

There, on that mountain bypass, you find a route around the big boulders.

Sometimes you gush greedily, hopping over pebbles and rounding the edges of even those most stubborn barriers.

Your presence is stronger than the rocks, whose corners you erode over millennia past.

Where are you going? I ask, hoping to stop you short on your stride.

But you throw a merry twinkling glance at me over your shoulder, letting me know…

Prose poem

I can’t see you yet.

But I can detect your presence.

The hint of your smell in the air, a cursory blend of oceany saltwater, freshly turned earth, early morning dew.

Your smell, it laces the valleys and deserts alike.

On those steep mountainsides, when I stop to rest my weary soul, your smell guides me toward fresh streaks of red loam and black soil.

I smell pine and eucalyptus, and know you are close.

I smell you in the gurgling of the flirtatious brook, and the provocation of the dusk campfire.

You are there everywhere.

I smell the journeys…

Wednesday Prose Poem: capitulation

The only one I’ll ever surrender to, my lord, my liege, my nemesis, is Shiva’s Cat.

But Shiva didn’t have a cat, he had a snake! — do I hear you say?

Ah, my friend, I do beg to differ. I postulate that my cat is none other than the avatar of Shiva’s snake.

And may I present the evidence toward my postulation.

- This crafty being hisses when enormously annoyed, much like a snake would.

- She has fangs of steel and will employ them without hesitation. A bug, a mouse (real or imaginary under-the-blanket ones) or even a…

Saturday Poetry Prompt: explanations

What do you see when a car approaches?

The eye unpeels it all, slowly.

Time of day, check. Number of people around, check.

Always programmed to look under the rug for hidden danger.

And then the glass. Is it tinted black?

Worse if the car is occupied. Four men, windows down, eyes hungrily prowling the streets. That’s the worst combination of all.

Nothing else spells danger in neon lights, colors flashing.

Make and model of car, check.

If high end: the occupants have money. Hence connections. Hence the capacity to bury crime.

If low end: the occupants have nothing to…

A creative anthropomorphic rendition of current events

Hello there! My name is Sizzy, and I am a pair of scissors.

I came into the world ten years ago, and my first home was with a sweet family. Their little girl, Maya, was the one who named me. When her mother was trying to teach her the word ‘scissors’, pointing at me, she threw up her hands with a shout. “Sizzy,” she exclaimed, and Sizzy I remained.

Maya was everything to me. She was not just my owner, but someone I doted on. My favorite time of the day was afternoon craft time. I played a starring role…

Free Verse — the colors of love

I didn’t see you at first, my love.
You were beige, and it was a beige day.

That kiss changed everything,
It rose crimson pink on my horizon

Blinding me with red rose love,
Obliterating everything else insight

Those first days, my love, was like spring
Fresh dewy green, and passion grew anew

Weeding through the gaps of my old blue soul,
Awakening me in ways I didn’t know life could do

Seasons turned with time, my love,
And you turned too, colors of the chameleon

Your sudden fury erupted like a large yellow sun, burning me,
Leaving purple indigo bruises…

Paroma Sen

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

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