#furniture

211 posts
  • diyabedi 62w

    There was a tinge of sadness in her voice when she stared at those chest of drawers that reminded her of that September when it was bought at first.

    Those russet coloured shiny maples cabinets that have turned all dark brown with dust. It was an old chest of drawers with several emotions permanently encapsulated inside it.

    Holding the knob she opened the first drawer as if examining her own repressed thoughts that were stored there. That little toy which used to sing when the key was wound now secretly chants all those childhood memories like a lullaby. Sweet and surreal.
    Those half-tinted photographs as if some acidic evocation of adulthood have ruined them. Distorted and slowly fading, the side effects of growing up.

    The next drawer was jammed like her in times of difficulty. The broken alarm clock that shows the same time every minute, every second. It gave her a chance to adjust her time in her own way.
    Who can control time? Nobody but that clock wanted her to devise her own time.

    She saw the last drawer without that knob. Broken and maybe empty. Locked with those dry metaphors and dank similes. Some hidden soft giggles and heavy sighs. The drawer that can hold more thoughts and emotions. Some world of imagination that can help remove those cobwebs of reality.

    Putting all those memories and emotions in a cardboard box, she saw her heart of drawers leaving this early September. Replacing that old brown cabinet with some new ones that is ready to store new emotions.

    The drawers were diffused in dark but this time it was not empty but all the space was filled with her tears.
    ©diyabedi



    I really wanted to write on that furniture thing but couldn't write that at that time. So here it is with little sense.

    @mismagical @jeelpatel @branthan @writersnetwork @mirakee @alisdaire_ocaoimph @philosophic_firefly
    #pod #dds #ceesreposts #tod_wt #bob_201 #6_11 #atd #writerstolli #writersnetwork #mirakee #mirakeeworld
    #furniture #tears #petrichorc #sadness

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    Tears melted from her eyes just like the sky has melted that gives some relief as if the petrichor has infiltrated.


    ©diyabedi

  • elenorasays 63w

    Let Go Of The Past

    Cut off dead ends for growth
    And this applies not just to hair
    But to everything and everyone

    There are people in your life
    Limiting your growth
    There are situations in your life
    Impeding your growth

    People think it is unhealthy
    Cutting people and things off
    Like they didn’t mean anything

    But You know what is unhealthy?
    Putting up with people and situations
    For fear of the unknown
    Even when you know, you need to
    Let them go and let you grow

  • the_speccy_outsider 63w

    Time doesn't stop for anyone. Some are chasing it, some are running away from it. An ironical being, for sure. Creating dichotomy while it slithers betwixt the passage of days, weeks and years.

    Time is like music, an inebriating cocktail of mellifluous melancholia and dolent divinity.

    I often feel Time can be a miracle!
    That vintage chair in the library reminds me of the magical times. Where I'd sit for hours listening to vinyls of old soulful classics, that Time brought me. Showering pristine saudade of melody. Making me believe that Time is a gift to mankind, that helped in its evolution.

    But Time can also be a disaster!
    As it is responsible for creating a paradoxical thing, none other than Memory. Memory and Time are each other's muse. When one drinks the concoction of it, they either get a bitter taste or a sweet one. Something that is out of their control. Memories give Time the power it requires, over a being. Thus, making it the undisputed master.

    Time loves to play with people. Either by gifting them an abundant part of itself, or by snatching away whatever is left of it with them. An unscrupulously precarious affair, that it dons as a proud attribute. Making it superior to every other facet of Life. I guess, Life married Time. To take care of its offsprings. Rewarding and punishing them according to their respective deeds. A perfect combination it is though. And I salute Life for it. Heartily!

    Time
    Doesn't stop
    Can't be seen
    None can possess
    Inspite that, controls the strings of our lives

    ©the_speccy_outsider

    #questionku #MondayMantras #furniture #soul #PoetryWednesday #miracle #daadisbae

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    Time

    Some claim they have
    Rest are chasing it
    Can someone possess time?

  • say_me_krish 63w

    @_aradhya @_aesthete_
    You both are great inspirations ��

    | RUBY N' REDWOODS |

    When I met Ruby for the first time, she was sitting unchaperoned in that Redwood bench; the one, which I adore since boyhood. All she had cradled in her hands was a Parker pen and an antique diary. I didn't pay much heed to her on the first day. If I would have realized her worth, I would've walked with happiness for an extra mile.

    A poet I was, some call me a mad-man, some call me dark. I call myself a fragment of the cosmos and my poems, a solace. The day I met her, I was into my usances of sitting on the bench, plugging earphones and writing whatever the winds muttered in my ears. As usual, she sat in the other corner, looking at the diary. A girl of 10 maybe, a desolated figure she was; tears befriended her. That day, the poem I wrote was titled 'ᴄᴀᴛᴀsᴛʀᴏᴘʜɪᴄ ɢʟᴏᴏᴍs'. Coincidental, isn't it?

    The next day, the sun pushed the clouds away to look evident and radiant. The bench was welcoming me. I saw Ruby today as well. She was gasping, I didn't know why. I went close to the bench and asked her, "What happened?". She didn't reply. I asked her name. "Ruby", she whispered. I eventually developed a soft corner for her. This is all what poets do; they know it all, the pain and the loneliness, but they do.
    Love, pain, poetry.
    Later Love, and write about pain in poetry.

    As days passed, I got to know about this thing that her father was a poet as well. I tried to read that diary, but she said, "My dad gave me this. He says me to pen down definitions of words in your own way. It's something close to me. I wanted to give this to one person. He's far for now. So Please....."
    I didn't understand much, I just stayed mum. I used to bring her chocolates everyday. As soon as the clock's hands danced on 4, I used to run with my book and chocolates in hand, thoughts in mind and happy butterflies encaged in heart. We became good friends. I used to show her my poems, the 'dark' ones, they say. She used to love those. Her eyes used to shine seeing me in her path. Her mellifluous tone sounded more beautiful when she called me "Bhaiyya". She no longer weeped. She was radiance in her own self. My purpose was served.

    She used to come with her mother, a tall figure, who loved silence. Her mum would just smile at me, talk nothing else, take her daughter with her and go away. It was some kind of a tough tone, but the moment I see Ruby, everything was sort to fine. The cycle just went on and on for days. Autumn paved its way for monsoons. The park was overflowing with water, and hence, my bench was bellowing for seeing me, and I yearned for meeting Ruby. Two months just went away in total boredom and wayment.

    As soon as sun shone one day, I ran to the park with some gift wrapped in silver foils. But I didn't find her. I rushed to her home. It was locked as well. I asked her neighbours. They informed me where they were. I ran in fear, with a thousand thoughts in my mind, till I saw that huge display saying "ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴛʀᴇᴇ ᴍᴜʟᴛɪsᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟɪᴛʏ ʜᴏsᴘɪᴛᴀʟ - ᴡᴇ sᴀᴠᴇ ʟɪᴠᴇs".
    I began speaking in big voices; long breaths accompanied those. "Where is Ruby?"

    Just then, I saw her mother, they say bloodshed, this time, it was tearshed. Adrenaline rush flooded in the greatest speed possible. I became more scared than before.
    "Wh--wh---what happened to Ruby? Say that first".
    She spoke for the first time. Her voice was soft.
    "Here, she wanted to give this diary to you".

    " Where's she?"
    "She had brain tumor. Scars and holes loved her. It took her into its painful bosoms. Now she'll be saying Hi to her father and give his Parker pen."
    And she went away, with a shadow of silence.
    /And silence screamed this time/

    This 20 year old me cried like a newborn child gasping for proper breath. A poet I was. My heart was meant to be shattered again and again, the play repeats. The same old playlists with the same old dark songs must be heard again. I must wave to solitudes again. I broke down. With a heart weighing a ton, I opened the diary. My mind forced me to read the last lines.
    .
    .
    .
    ���������� (noun):
    1. Waters which disappeared when I spoke to Bhaiyya.
    2. Bhaiyya's best friend when someone leaves him.

    ���������� (noun):
    1. A virtue which will embrace me soon.
    2. A messenger who will take me to my father and mother.

    "Wait. What? Was her mother a ghost? Was I speaking to an apparition?", I was in total awe. I shouted with the loudest pitch.

    /And screams wished for mornings this time/

    "Chris, you'll have to recollect broken pieces, the scattered ones. They'll lie spread again for sure", my mind says.
    Will it be a catastrophic reality; a Catastrophic gloom again? I'll go ask the redwoods.



    ~S r i K r i s h n a  P  S | Sep 22, 2020.
    ___________________________________________________

    'Bhaiyya' is the Hindi word for brother. ❤️
    @sangfroid_soul #skp_writes #pod #furniture #questionku

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    .

  • _mathematics 63w

    When life puts everything in your pocket
    Immediately inaugurate with a little heaven of exhilarating
    furnishings and layouts, they called it home.

    #furniture #writersnetwork
    #pod #mirakee @writersnetwork

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    Furry
    unparalleled
    recreating
    nuance
    inside
    the
    Uncoated walls
    reattempting
    escape of shredded paste
    ©silly_lad

  • priyanshideliwala_ 63w

    #furniture @mirakee@writersnetwork @mirakeeworld

    Dear dining table,

    Although you are used seldom, you are very Special  because whenever used , you have gifted us Widest smiles and Loudest Laughs to be cherished Forever. You come to life  when Uncles and aunties , brothers and sisters , friends and neighbors come together for a get-together. You have  bestowed us with  Best- Loved Delicious Delicacies all the time. On Birthdays and  Anniversaries, It is you who has got the prestige  to witness all the cake-cuttings and be part of our Celebration! On Other days,you are an abode to baskets filled with dozens of fruits or piles of clothes waiting to be folded or small leftover things . You have  served me as a Study table years ago and now happily serving my sister. Although we come in contact seldom , I take care of you regularly. In order to keep your shining glass body gleaming forever , I make sure you are adored with beautiful cover and a preety vase with fresh flowers in it. Your chairs seemed  unhappy since some years so I pleaded papa to make efforts in the same direction ! As a result , the chairs are on cloud 9 with the new seat covers and beautiful head-covers placed on it . Lastly , I  might not take your note everyday, but you know you've got a special place in my heart forever ! Thank you for everything dearest dining table!

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    Dear Dining Table,

    @piyu27

  • dr_gandhali 63w

    People now a days are temperory
    But non-living things stay longer
    My best friend since long time is bed
    It always gives me peace, comfort
    Hides all my deep dark secrets and my tears,
    This is not now but since many years
    It never judges me, and always there
    It's my happy place, I miss it everywhere

    ©dr_gandhali

  • jlaine 63w

    Restless head upon wistful plume,
    Coveting lambs of the chosen few,
    Welcoming cherubs with tonics and brew,
    Beguiling eye with the rhythms of gloom.
    ©jlaine

  • ashamurali 63w

    Table's testimony

    Three days after my wedding, when I was trying hard to adjust to the new surroundings, I heard a knock at the door.  To my great joy, it was my mother's dressing table that she sent as a surprise gift for me. There was a little note that said "only love remains" in my mom's beautiful handwriting.

    I know how precious the dressing table was for her.  My father had lovingly got it done for her, years back. Just as she would dress up in front of it, I would see him silently walking in and putting his arms around her like a garland.  His admiring looks for her were absolutely priceless.  Those days public display of affection was a strict no no.  Hugs were always hidden. I can never forget my mother's  shy smile and her nervousness to see if anyone was around.  She would pretend to get out of his hug but wouldn't move an inch.  They didnt know that a pair of puppy eyes were looking at them from behind the cupboard.   

    This is the love that has helped them to survive the numerous storms in their lives.   My father, who has dementia, cannot recognize my mother.  But her love for him remains the same, as it was on the first day she met him.

    A very warm feeling brushes against me when I stand in front of the dressing table.  I can feel my parents love for each other in each layer of wood and the nuts and bolts that holds it.. I am also convinced that problems can be part of life but with love in the heart and smile on our lips, anything can be managed.  

    There is a saying that the best gift a father can give to his kids is to love their mother.  My father gave me that precious gift by showering so much love on my mother and vice versa.   The dressing table stands witness to it. It reiterates that love is the only permanent and priceless feeling in this world.
     
    ©ashamurali

  • sameen_ 63w

    She sat there, in her room
    Dejected, in complete bleak
    When she heard a voice
    Astonished to see her closet speak

    "Oh darling princess, come forth
    For I got just what you need
    A dress so beautiful
    With sequence and beads"

    Hesitant, she stood up
    And walked upto the door
    Just to find out there
    What the closet has in store

    She moved from dress to dress
    Walking in delight
    Until she halted before one
    As the best dress came in sight

    She wore that pretty one
    And danced gleefully
    She thanked the closet and came out
    Being as happy as she could be

    She walked upto the mirror
    Soaking in the happiness
    Little did she know
    That was just her ordinary dress

    The angel of the closet
    Looked at her and grinned
    It had taught her well
    Happiness comes from within

    #furniture #pod #magic #closet #princess
    #dress #happiness #beauty @mirakee @mirakeeworld @writersnetwork

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    Closet

    And when she opened it
    She was pulled inside
    In a world of beauty
    Where no worries reside
    ©sameen_

  • its_krish 63w

    ll Decision ll

    A decision should be taken,
    based on...
    what u lose
    by foregoing the other option
    rather than
    what you gain by opting this one.

    ©im___kalyan
    ©its_krish

  • tuiethetweety 63w

    "my bed"

    the only furniture in my room that
    is undoubtedly most required for me,
    as i pass my most of the free times on it.
    i love to watch my phone on bed,
    reading books on it,also writing.
    listening to music,talking over phone..
    what and what not that i do on bed.
    love to roll about,dreaming,imagining,
    thinking,having colorful fantasies,
    plotting my stories and write ups.
    finally sleeping.
    This might sound odd,but bed is
    my most favourite furniture.
    ©tuiethetweety

  • deepajoshidhawan 63w

    Cradle is that piece of furniture which is
    bought with much love and enthusiasm
    but loses it's importance once the children
    grow up but a time comes when they move
    away and you are left with that forgotten
    cradle only.

    #furniture #mirakee #writersnetwork

    C easelessly handled cries and tantrums
    R elaxation was a dream for both of us
    A ttic is your home since they are gone
    D on't you believe that we should now
    L earn to be empathetic to overcome this
    E erie silence of empty nest syndrome
    ©deepajoshidhawan

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    Cradle

    C easelessly handled cries and tantrums
    R elaxation was a dream for both of us
    A ttic is your home since they are gone
    D on't you believe that we should now
    L earn to be empathetic to overcome this
    E erie silence of empty nest syndrome
    ©deepajoshidhawan

  • waitaminute 63w

    It was a night before my hostel allocation, I didn't sleep , I kept turning sides. Three times I woke up drank water and almost dozed at 4 am. The morning came with a excited sunrise and a heart filled with emotions of missing fights with my bro, missing my dad's lectures, my mom's taunts , love and of course my cozy comfort room, a luxurious life to end. Still I was excited for new world. Packed my luggage we arrived there , let me give you an overview. My college was established in 1962 , being a government set up I deduced my expectations. We arrived there a very good morning. It give me a feel of government quarter, fences around, two floors and a guard outside. I wished him and we made our way to warden's room. After all formalities done , I bid a warm farewell to my parents no tears only smile. My dad was quite tensed about me but I assured him " Papa I am big now, take care see you on weekend" . Then a helper came she took my luggage and we made our path through narrow corridors, I could not breathe , all ways seemed quite similar and I almost lost there in begining I reached there, Room no 60 . Being a cleistophobic it was small beyond my expectations. I made a very star entry to look cool and now came the assets we got . The room got 90's look., white washed walls, divided into three compartments and the furniture may be decades old. A bed , not a bed just a piece of wood and rusted legs, jammed window and an extraordinarily small almirah to fix my things, my mom really gave a lot more than need , even not required. A chair with its wooden part damaged by water because my seniors might have used that for clothes. I remember to get things done in almirah I used chair and I got it's one leg broken which I hided under bed. Night came, my roomies were not shifted there yet. I kept my lights on that night . Videocalled ma and concealing my tears well. Then I had a look at my room, blue painted doors and windows, walls were having many stories, some about birthdays, some written notes to learn. The table there was having a lot of crafts done by my seniors and that chair also must have survived weights of their clothes. The bed, weak but there many students slept in stress, happiness, anger or ambivalence. The room turned in to story telling granny that night Paper hearts were someone's hand made try and notes to keep things in mind. I kept thinking about them till clock striked twelve and I fell asleep dreaming for my turn to get my name in list of residents of room no 60
    #mirakee @writersnetwork #furniture

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    Room no 60

    ©missplato20

  • devasena_93 63w

    ©dv

  • rajibalogupta 63w

    In the corner of my mind
    I have a little shelf with little racks
    And on those racks I have kept
    an array of paraphernalia –
    some memories stacked and bound,
    heaps of thoughts all neatly packed,
    a hoard of worries stowed away
    behind a façade of calm and quiet …
    But what takes the pride of place
    on those dainty racks
    is the quaint lamp that glows with love
    and lights my mind when it gets dark

    ©rajibalogupta

  • artemiswrites 63w

    Of stories and cane chairs

    So many stories have called the
    rocking of the old cane chair that sits
    on the corner of my room
    the first experience of an eternal life;
    stories of legends and myths
    cradled in the soft cotton
    folds of my grandmother's saree,
    Bedtime stories spoken over the music of my mother's bangles, that I still remember,
    and stories that the bard in me, has
    poured out in rivulets of ink...
    Like the interwoven cane branch patterns
    of the chair,
    our stories meet each other, through time.
    ©artemiswrites

  • landscape 63w

    S I L V E R


    The furnitures of euphoria
    are the abode of emotions
    Tanned brown
    and ink kissed
    by some notorious
    schoolboys and girls
    with stuffs
    they call creativity
    like carving names
    drawing cartoons, etc.
    things like that
    are concrete
    but they hold an inch of gloom
    on the day
    of farewell;
    however, time is
    a panther but
    things are not
    forgotten
    they become
    memories

    Now we are tied
    to the fist of colleges
    blank and wireless
    as if we aren't connected
    socially, but emotionally
    we spend most of our time
    in libraries
    bookshelves become
    the only furniture of
    our hope
    they not only
    contain books
    but also
    volumes
    of portraits
    comedy,
    tragedy,
    novel,
    journal, etc.

    This was
    a recap
    of our life
    as a student
    now, we are
    confined to
    the oldest furniture
    where my hope wilted,
    where grandma
    promised a return
    after battling leukemia
    but her bones turned into rocks
    and the bed, a dusky seashore.

    Things are made of materials
    Things are mere furnitures
    and painted emotions.



    ©coral1


    #furniture
    @writersnetwork
    @mirakee
    #pod

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    Some things remain constant like the friendly tanned bed of silver age.



    ©coral1

  • fleeing_fossil 63w

    #greekc #furniture
    *Very temporary!

    #rant
    Skip it!

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    Our desk

    MY THOUGHTS -MEETING MY EX AFTER YEARS

    No, I don't remember you. I don't remember how you always wanted to sit in the front desk of mine but not in the adjacent one, unlike the other boys who admired me.

    I don't remember the number of times you lifted my desk off the floor, on your lean shoulders- to gain my attention, not bothering about my desk mate's disgruntled groans. And I certainly don't remember the noise of your throaty chuckles as I gasped in a panic at your prank.

    I don't remember why you often jerked my math homework from my lap across that desk and brushed my arms with your callous fingers in that process. Although you were much better than me in that particular subject.

    I don't remember why you never shifted from that desk and kicked off your poor desk-mate during study hours. And that look you offered my friend who used to scurry off from my desk instantly but not before giving us a back and forth knowing stare.

    I surely don't remember how your straight raven bristles tickled my hand as you plop your head back on my desk. Also, the mischievous glint in your coal-black eyes as they witnessed my profuse blush.

    I don't ever think of the day, you etched our names on my desk with a drawing compass. And the way you used to caress that spot daily with fondness, assuming that I wasn't watching you.

    I inevitably don't remember how my desk was never a barrier but a bridge between the two of us, transforming from 'mine' to 'our'. Also its efficacy in wrecking the part of my soul that belonged to Athena and nurturing the Aphrodite in me.

    //This isn't how I imagined our encounter to be. No, I honestly never imagined this meeting. This is not me who's babbling to you.//

    //I wasn't a liar. Never. I despised liars and lies.//

    //Now, I'm a lie. Not a white one, I'm.. dark.. Awfully dark.// - Advita

  • odysseus 87w

    Bookshelf

    ��
    Oh my son, don't discard this bookshelf please
    Urging you to spare it for me, here I am on my knees
    ��
    To give us a meal a day, my parents had to be on their toes
    As a child, I would barely get enough food and clothes
    ��
    I loved to read good books and study for knowledge
    But my poor parents couldn't send me to college
    ��
    I had a younger sister and we wanted her to learn
    To support her education, some money I had to earn
    ��
    Even after her marriage, I'd save as much as I could
    Poverty hadn't allowed me to buy books in my childhood
    ��
    Times changed, and, to buy a few books I could afford
    There wasn't a place in my house where they could be stored
    ��
    Then one day I saw this bookshelf in the scrap market
    It was cheap, but I didn't have enough money in my pocket
    ��
    I paid in installments, and it became my precious possession
    Since then, it has always remained my magnificent obsession
    ��
    In a few years from now, my ailing soul will be set free
    Son, fate has already snatched away your mother from me
    ��
    After her demise, my life has never been the same
    I have already transferred this house to your name
    ��
    This bookshelf is my oldest buddy; it's close to my heart
    Of the chequered journey of my life, it's an integral part
    ��
    Dear daughter-in-law, please let this old bookshelf stay
    It's harmless, and for its sustenance, nothing you need to pay

    Image credit : laurelcrown, vectorstock

    @writersnetwork #writerstolli @mirakee #pod #bookshelf #furniture
    #life #thoughts #poetry #diary

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    Bookshelf
    .
    .
    .


    Oh my son, do not discard
    this bookshelf please

    Urging you to spare it for me,
    here I am on my knees
    ©odysseus