Farm Life

Denise’s Six sentence story prompt – Grid

They sat in the dark of the farm house they purchased, perhaps on impulse, in the middle of winter.

He was no cave man and could not make fire with sticks and stones. She wasn’t much of a homemaker and forgot to shop for a lighter or a box of matches.

When they both worked as executives, they had personal assistants to run errands and organise things for them. The idea of organising the connection of electricity and internet service had never crossed their mind.

Their dream of living off the grid farm life died on that freezing cold night, with snowflakes falling like soil the mourners threw on top of a coffin.

A Novel About Love

Waiting for your book release
The print will smell like your intelligence
The words will feel like love
If I read them aloud
it will sound like your heartbeat

Trust the Process

Little tiny numbers
Some needed a magnifying glass
to be visible
Small brush strokes
of hues
fit in jagged boundaries

It was seemingly mundane
and yet therapeutic
When it’s completed
I marveled at
its intricate beauty

I’ve learnt to trust
the process
designed by
the creator

When did I write about love last?

Open field of lavenders
decorated with purple dreams
filled with smoky scent
from the sprigs
broken between our skin
Perhaps
that’s enough
to make the moon
pregnant

Colourless

What if
I don’t see a
a blue sky
through all the grey tears

What if
rain is more than
appreciation
non stop till
it floods the land
and I don’t see
green hills

What if
the spring flowers
lose their vibrancy
the autumn leaves
fade in a flash
winter overatays
my welcome

What if
black is too supressing
white is too bland
and grey always
colours my soul

Blindness

Jealousy, insecurity
cast over logic
like blindness

Venom spills over
from your heart
onto your fingertips
Abusive words dance
along with nonsense
message after message

I cannot
make a blind woman see
Only God can
Shut out the white noise
Peace is with me

Rain

The rain makes her feel pretty
In the mirror reflection of
A subdued and purified backdrop
Softly glow cheeks
Luscious parting lips
Reciting poetry
Like falling petals

Shells

I long to be
these little shells
laze around
on a bed of moss
wearing the marks
of the ocean
bath in the healing sun

I Once Sang

I was once in the school choir, then the district choir, and I sang the leading part. There were performances, and they were a blur.

What I remember though, clearly, the eccentric conductor with wiry hair threw the baton on me, it hit the corner of my head. It didn’t hurt but I was shocked, so as the rest of the choir. We stopped in the middle of the rehearsal. He literally drove the kids out the door and commanded me to stay.

He signalled a spot next to the piano for me to stand. He started to play the piano and I sang again and again where I was out of tune. I could read the frustration on his face, his eyebrows particularly.

I knew what frustrated him, me singing out of tune. I wished I knew how to fix it. I couldn’t tell I was in tune or not. I only knew when the whole choir was doing listening exercise, I was the only one lagged behind. Everybody else seemed to be able to tell what three piano keys he played at the same time. But me, nada, I couldn’t grasp it.

I had no idea why I was singing the lead part. I did what I was told for being a very compliant child. I was demanded to practice and practice until his eyebrows relaxed and his face softened. Then he called the rest of the choir back in and carried on with the rehearsal.

I did it for three years until my father told me there was no future for me to continue in the choir because we had no family connections in the entertainment industry, and I had no real talent in singing. I didn’t disagree and I was glad that the baton was no longer a threat.

In my last choir practice, the eccentric conductor said to me in a grumbling voice, “You are wasting your talent by quitting. Do you want me to have a word with your father?” I replied in a very quiet voice, “My father said I have no real talent in singing and we have no family connections. I think my father is right.”

He started to play the piano and signalled me to sing. I did so compliantly till the practice session finished. That was the end of my singing.

A Greener Childhood

Living Poetry prompt – Discovery

Looking for my lost childhood
deep in the luscious green

I was once delighted
in the gossamer
of my innocent face
looking into the reflection
of the calm river

With each erosion of the bank
I grew older
as the tree trunks grew thicker
until the familiar path
became unrecognisable
overtaken by years of absence

Searching but not finding
the same joy
when a world discovered
to be greyer
beyond the forest gate