The most hurtful attack
is your silence
The most loving gesture
is also your silence
#cassaquote – 33
It is in the things
we don’t want to do
we build characters
It is in the things
we love doing
we excel
Don’t Ask for the Impossible
Why can’t he just love me
love me just being me
whingy, whining, insecured me?
The little girl inside sobs.
Well sweetheart,
he is not your father
nor God.
Uncontional love
is just off the table
and off limits.
Midnight Spotify
An acoustic guitar
acompanied by a poetic voice
emits folk storytelling
of wayward love
in an open filed of tall grass
by the lily pond
Sometimes
it’s mistaken for
a haunting ghost weeping
at dusk
all through the night
But
if you pay attention
you will see the shadow of loss
in fitful moonlight
mourning for his lover
over the opaque reflection
of the lily pond
If
you pay attention
New Normal
The Living Poetry word prompt – Ocean
Cars crawling on the highway again
signifying the returnimg of the normal life.
But it isn’t normal
that life is filled with rushing,
crowding and fighting for space again.
We learned the lesson from calamities.
But we ditch them like disposal plastics
and let them drown in the open oceans with indigestion.
No Place for Rescue
With all good intentions,
he can’t rescue her.
He shouldn’t.
He couldn’t.
Because
she is not a victim.
She is a victor
capable of fighting her own battle
and wearing the winning crown.
Ode to Headache
At times,
you clouded my mind
like fresh tobacco in the valley rain.
My eyes teared up and fell
for your celestial dance.
Never had I known,
you lingered relentlessly
in the deepest of my thought,
sometimes in conga drums
sometimes jazz club glass clink-clanks
sometimes an urging storm
sometimes a leaking tap on a quiet afternoon.
The most ugly was at night.
You drummed with hollow bones.
You tap danced in metal heels.
You withheld water from dying fish.
You told lies about my past.
You amused me,
you and your little friends in clusters.
You left the sand scattered after a play.
You summoned the cicadas to choir practice.
You hid the crumbs to trap squeaky mice.
You and your little friends
lived in the fun house built on the neurons
of my overthinking brain.
Then,
I realised there was never an agreement
for your occupancy.
You were just algae latched on wetland.
I moved to the hot desert and left you all behind.
“Cry, cry baby!”
The Birthday Girl
Today is your birthday.
The birthday girl is special.
The birthday girl is beautiful.
I bet the angels up there sing,
‘The Dublin birthday girl is special.
The Dublin birthday girl is beautiful
Here on earth I sing,
‘Darling I love you.
Darling I miss you.
Happy Birthday!’
She Can Only Pray
Rosary hung on her wrinkled hands.
She can’t see that well.
She can’t hear that well.
Her heart has been shattered to liquid form.
So, she can feel nothing at all.
Someone on the street told her
that there is a snow storm and prolong power outage somewhere in the world.
She kneeled on the pew with her un bendable arthritic knees.
She recognised there is pain and brokenness.
But she thinks it’s ok
while somewhere in the world the snow storm place is filled with misery.
A Way to Keep Living
Writers have
this insatiable need
to be recognised
understood
and heard
I wonder
if this is sprung
from the wisdom
beyond the years
of their peers
and the inconceivable
rich inner world
Or perhaps
they are just
too tired of
not being
listened to
or allowed to
express freely
The fighting spirit inside
rises up
to take charge
So they live
through the characters
of the story
they so eagerly tell
Flicker of Thoughts 