"I won't retire this early, besides I have a book to write"- saying that, Richa started to skim towards our hotel. I could feel the cold breeze on my skin, it reminded me of our first kiss.
It was during Christmas of 1989 on our way back from a party where we first met. We were intoxicated. I stumbled on a rock and was about to plunge. Richa yanked me back on the side and rescued me from a speeding car. Realising I was not in my senses and had lost control, Richa clutched on to my hand as we marched. We were to reach my house any minute so I stopped, standing there Richa turned around and found me staring into her eyes but to my surprise she giggled and pecked me.
Now that I spotted her all merry, rushing back to the hotel, I decided what I forgot was not important.
"The supper is served honey", I called her out. She tramped towards me and what I saw was someone I lost on Christmas of 1989. She painted her nail red, my favourite colour. Not that she knew it, but an accident. An accident that made me who I once was, now I remember why I stopped her that night, she wore a red lipstick and a red smock, Monochromatic Richa.
I finished my feast and saved the fingers with red nails.
Promise! Ah that's how the uncertain "thing" begun. Well, I called it love then. Maybe I was right that day and wrong now, but the truth is for the one who will judge. Right or Wrong is what you feel and not what's 'Just'. Doubts and questions are contrary, if you know you know, if you don't then you won't.
I ate an unicorn for my lunch. Quite disturbing right? Well if NOT, you're are totally a normal being. I don't know what is right/wrong, just/unjust. Something done can't be undone, it was a result of someones decision which was a choice from various options they had. Well, don't think much about the circumstances they had because you're really wanting justice which is(might be) so unjust to the doer. It ends if you leave it, but furthers because you won't.
Humans go dirty to manage their fancy. We are reluctant so we perform the unexpected. The greedy gut that most got, Is what that's chewing us hollow. We keep supplementing our useless necessities. We work for rapacity. And the famished voices, hope. This sphere is no more humane towards man. Everyone's looking for blood and not for love.
the last train to St. Petersburg : as the hawser reels back in, a vessel to your heart, and Christ, the ice is so thin, like war-boots on eggshells — when did the errant heat of the summer breeze, give way to the warmth of your love ? how is your sunlight so bright, even on the eve of Christmas ?
such a revelry, a December, you and me; the letterbox fides my name into yours; and, the dust that you bring home — your feet is my fane. chlorine stains on the curtain, curtailing what we both had missed, during these past three years : it had only seemed unfair until it was fair.
waking up, next to you — next to the bride soaking up the sunlight acrost her face, the starboard bride, and, me : the product of Icarus' mistakes; the forest fires, they do not please me as much as you do. and, if you say that you love me : I love you, times two, two times ten, because that's exactly how long it took for me, to find you.
is it a little too late, to celebrate ? I could make it all up to you, for, all the days that I had spent looking for you and your traces, in some stranger's face. and, out of all the days that I had counted down, out of all the lives, that I had seen, pass me by : how come we are, the way we were, ever since 2018 ?
Ok, so my apologies and gratitude to all those whom I wasn't able to add due to a little space, But you all are close to my heart. Love and light . #miraquillwrapped _______________________
A jukebox of poets (Miraquill wrapped)
In the downtown of poetry I visited distinct sites, piecemeal
Here, when I first moseyed in a slumbered lunar eclipse welcomed my lost and bewildered quill holding a lantern in my hand in a b(u)orn forest I swayed circles to circles, I travelled not knowing even what a haiku is with shaky fingertips I picked up my father's ammi's pen 538 days it took me to realize my capabilities and forte,
I read whispers of love to those soft ebbs of jeel, from those love-notes to understand the point that love can never fade. The speccy outsiders made me learn what's hidden in fairytale's ink, A selenophile . Squared steps constructed a ladder of haikus where I fall for soulful strings captivating my mind the thoughts process of zylith. Fast and furious became my favorite series, where an ole diary and adamant quills again made me nostalgic with Harry Potter . To the queen butterflies and heartsease which bloom in the garden of Van Gogh, who was the one due to whom I got to know about moon bunny and the daydreams of Shakespeare to the vic(hus)tor of my camaraderie the poet who only write pain to the ink who is the closest to my journal pages, existence of an alliteration ghoul to the mistral which gave life to urdu poems, the daffodil pearls when shone in the shadowed an[t(a)ra] of safflower the queen of resonance cocooned me a carpet of sunflowers and fireflies tapestried poetic sighs,
I was the girl on the train who never knew she can be able to abut the moon and the sun,
Recaps of these minutes will dig a poetic yet tranquil grave in my heart but I'll keep penning poetries to govern the poetry-city till The day I'll leave day I'll leave I'll leave
Lost its way, my soul tentatively wilted its path, In awakened hopes the only light; carried me through, Withering away from every rub, it took me long; longer and then in a circular jigsaw, It reminded me of you; intriguing, appealing and dark. Im tired looking at the lights, they purposefully murmur a glimpse of you. The magazines remember? I quacked thinking that coffee cup stain kindled your presence.
The teary eyes that never were a home, found a mundane schedule, In yearning meaningful reasons, it found a resemblance to the paradigm, The cherry you discarded, tasted better with the show alone; In hoping that your scent left my body, found home in the bedsheets I always hated. Wondering what part is it, my unhindered access to your presence or your surrealistic absence?
//Answers that feel cold to your seasonal heart, speak volume in my homeless skin. Skip materialistic reality, this part still feels homesick.//
This is a piece that I wrote back in November of 2016. I felt a need to repost it today. Thank you all for reading; and thank you always for your support, kindness, and your presence and contributions here amongst us. You are all very appreciated. ♥️
I hear a sound over the hill. On tracks that haven't been used in years, even decades. A chugging engine roaring softly. Then gradually louder and louder as the moments pass by. The brightest light appears around the corner. Pointing in the direction of the way that it travels, heading into the realms of nowhere. A transparent body of a train can be seen. Though it is clearly there, I can see right through it. Smoke bellows from the chimney as thick as coal. As it passes by, I wait. I wait to see the caboose, and what it looks like. But, that never happens. It disappears half way through. Where did it come from? Where was it headed? So many mysteries of this sight. This mind now wonders of this mystical ghost train.
Follow me down through the graves, to the river. Into powdered snow blankets with howling winds. See the places that make me silent, no, nothing to discuss. Screeching cold winds blow the screams of insanity. Do you wish to retreat? Can't go any further? That's fine. I've come here alone so many times. Where inspiration had taken a vacation. Where in the darkness I resigned to stew in melancholic madness. I will be back with you soon. Just a temporary trip to the recesses of this minds dark winter.
Self-inflicted battle scars serve as reminders. They remind us that when we battle ruthlessly against our own selves, we inflict wounds that can be difficult to heal. The healing balm of self-love can save us though, as it salvages the wreckage of our ailing heart and mind. In time, if we apply it often, self-love reduces the gaping wounds to fading scars; and those are battle scars that we can be proud of, because they show that we learned to stop fighting with ourselves, and start surviving and thriving instead. If the battle of a lifetime leads to a lesson of self-love, then we truly have won the war and proven ourselves the victor. There is no greater glory than that; so wear your scars with pride and teach the importance of self-love to one and all. Copyright Carolyn Glackin 1/9/2021