The two cups sat leisurely on Table 19, unlike the sole occupant: a visibly frustrated 25-year-old male with blue eyes. He stood up and threw a few pieces of paper, one scribbled on, the rest – money. He left the table with a longing glance towards the ladies room where she had disappeared to, right after the 8 o’clock news started to air. He walked out as the newsreader finished the update.
…and thanks to our local superhero, the fire that broke out in the City Hall has been brought under control!
We have all heard that when God did create: On our palms, was inscribed our fate. I do believe
We know of the ink on the palms of the writer Felt the sweat shaking hands with the hard worker Seen blood dripping from the fists of our soldiers Heard about the mud and dirt, caked inside the farmers’
The mothers’ palm has tears wiped away from her child’s cheek While the pain of which the fathers’ fingers would never speak Stifled with a single finger – secrets have lived on the sister’s lips With nothing but pride, the brother fights his imaginary ships
The rubber glove’s stench is all that is left on a seasoned surgeon The baker has the feel of flour that comes from his apron The barber owns the soap meant for the one who walks clean-shaven The teacher brushes off the chalk as she walks away from her haven
The mechanic possesses the slick of the oil which does stain The chemicals in the film are the photographer’s frame Salt-water is held long after the fishers return from their domain; And the feel of a loved one, always in memory will remain.
I could go on and on about what we love leaving its mark that is part of our life – our very own creative spark.
We have all heard that when God did create On our palms, was inscribed our fate I do believe that our blueprints may already be in place Yet our place isn’t defined by the lines within a five-finger space
A 270-word poem, and here’s to wishing my blog on its second year alive 🙂 Not exactly its birthday, but actually its birth week. While this post does have many references to stereotypical gender roles, I believe that it is up to each of us to pick our battles and stand for what we believe in. If you believe that your roles and responsibilities aren’t defined by who you are, but rather what you can do, then you live up to the belief that I wanted the poem to express and have mentioned in the last few lines.
He walked over to the bench that overlooked the waterfront.
Her laughter echoed over the bay, swathed in blues and greens, but more blue than green. They sat on the brown bench and gazed at the blue waters. He could not have asked for a better place for their last date.
It was their last date in an on-off relationship and he had decided to bend his knee for her, and in his hand would be their ring. And from tomorrow, they would have moved forward, and this would be their last date indeed.
He knew she was the one he had been waiting for. They had had their fair share of fights and misgivings – one fight had seen her aiming a vase at his face. Yet they had stuck together for so long. So, he had realised, they should stick together till death do them apart.
As he went down on his knee, she got up to shield him from the red hot wave that crashed from the shore onto the waves of the sea.
He remembered searching for her eyes but instead finding tears in front of his. He shivered from the overwhelming pain of that memory. It made him drop his phone that played the recordings of the fateful day, when a bomb blast had separated them, over a distance greater than physical.
The video was playing as it always did: at this spot, on this day for every single year for the past 40 years, and he clasping the now chipped ring.
The scene on his mobile ended with an image of the ruckus of the bay blown apart in a bloody red hue. The authorities had set right the place for the public’s eye. But in his mind’s eye, their last date would always be bathed in bloody red.
Each door has two sides. It opens for one side while the other side does the opening. Whether the door is opened or not depends on if it’s locked or not, which in turn, depends on what the relationship is between the people on the two sides of the door.
The following questions have been posed as part of this writing assignment
What are your writing habits?
What equipment or supplies do you use to write?
What do you need and want in a physical space?
Habits are usually used in the same breath as addictions. An inability to make it through the day without spending some time on that activity. It could also refer to a set of forced actions that we have to do whether we want it or not. I don’t think writing is a habit in the sense of these definitions. It’s neither a forced action nor an addictive habit.
Day 3: Theme: Skin, Style: Prose Poetry, Device: Internal Rhyme
The moon felt sad about his bad face and asked the sun to share one of her rays. Soon it grew to be in a new phase And light filled its quiet rocky surface.
The little boy could never smile because he always thought that he was the ugliest person to live. He thought none wanted to be close as he was hideous and unattractive. He had often asked the doctor to help him out, and once the doctor had consented. Exchanging the pills for a wad of cash, to his home in excitement, he did dash.
Yet, the gorgeous moon was far from joyous A dark mark stayed on the Earth, which was mysterious. It projected him into guilt more than he expected and created a plan to work to help the dejected.
On his way he saw the homeless, begging for food and money. But he noticed that they neither had shelter or anything to call cosy. This brought tears to his eyes, as he felt him despise for himself. He chalked up a plan and walked up to the clinic again.
The moon bounced the light to the provinces that were dim So those in the shadow were thankful to him. He felt joy that made him melt, in which he started to swim He knew he should do more according to his prayer hymn.
The boy went back to the clinic and traded his money back for the graded pills. He got back to the sector of the poor and gave out the money, becoming a donor. He found joy, by spreading it. A pleasure he had been unaware of so far. He made the decision to take the action forward as he knew the God of this creation would want him to.
The moon soon disappeared to become new and about where it went no one knew. Till he eclipsed the sun, he did grew and the solar power did cry and raise hue.
The power of the moon was thus made known The sun cowered and was covered by the moon which shone His influence on the earth’s waves and ways are stronger It is the moon that is, to the earth, closer much like the boy who, as a better doctor became renown.