Bubbles fill an azure sky
encapsulate rainbows
promise of tomorrows
That’s how love feels
How many bubbles
are we chasing
blow by blow
to feel alive
to feel loved
Tag: love
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
Sweetheart
Denise’s Six Sentence Story prompt – Box
My nose is blocked, and I keep sneezing.
My 4 year old son is running towards me with his arms throwing in the air. I quickly grab a box of tissues and wedge it between he and I, ‘Sweetheart, don’t come near me, I got a cold.”
He squashes the tissue box, wraps his arms around my neck and kisses my nose, “Mummy, you’re worth catching a cold for.”
My heart melts into a goo. My eyes are red and moist with a mix of a cold and an overwhelming feeling of love.
We Are Back at Where We Were
Memory of you running in full force all the way to the end of the jetty, leaped in the air holding your knees, gravity sank you in the reflection of the cloudless sky, stayed with me.
You packed up and left for the concrete jungle city life. Many nights, I listened to your voicemail messages, with deafening clubbing music, slurry speech, and lots ‘I love you, Silly’.
You missed my wedding, my 30th birthday party, my brother’s funeral and my divorce party. I didn’t know how to stay friends with you. You’d never there for me like you used to when you were here.
Every time I sat here, I looked at the jetty, remembering all the laughter,all the time we spent together, wondering what had gone wrong.
Now I am sitting here, with you by my side. I still haven’t had an answer. In my frail voice, I ask, “Why did you leave me and never came back all these years till now?” You wrap me tighter in the shaw and hold me closer, “Because I love you, Silly.” I still don’t quite understand, but I am glad you are back here with me in my last days. My heart is full again.
Honest And Hard Earned
A farm girl decided to survive in a big city.
She tried all decent work to bring in income
to pay for their daughter’s education,
so she would not need to follow her footsteps.
She sold rubber sandals in the market.
She mixed cement, dug trenches
and laid bricks on construction sites.
She is 5 feet tall in sun tanned skin.
She rode on a 28 inch wheel bicycle
carrying an ice box filled with ice blocks.
She waited outside her daughter’s school
in many scorching summer afternoons.
Children swamped out the school gate
at the sound of the bell.
That was the best time of her sales.
Children were reaching their hands high
to pay for the ice blocks.
It looked like a vigorous bidding scene.
She barely kept up to collect the coins
while giving out the ice blocks.
Yet her eyes always spotted her little girl
once she appeared outside the school gate.
She reached into the bottom right corner of the ice box
to retrieve the special perfectly frozen vanilla ice block,
handing it to her daughter standing on the sideline.
She never kept any eye contact though,
for the fear of the children would laugh at
her little girl has a mother working as a petty street vendor.
She received great education opportunities
from her mother’s hard labour and vision.
Every time she sucks on a vanilla ice block,
her mother’s sun tanned forehead
soaked with hot summer sweat
comes into her mind.
The melting ice block,
her melting heart,
shows up as streams of tears
she is too proud to hold back.
– dedicated to my mother
Crossed Paths
The exhibition was heading into a direction of disaster. The central heating in the venue wasn’t working and leaving pockets of cold air throughout the loft. He could hear viewers sneezing and coughing.
The viewers only filled about thirty percent of the gallery capacity, pathetic really. Why would anyone wanted to spend a Friday night after a long ass day of work to look at some abstract expressionist paintings from a no name artist and a fresh graduate? He knew he was no Pollock; he didn’t want to be Pollock or his work identified as Pollock alike.
His work had a floral theme, always, even the viewers couldn’t tell because they were abstracts. He had always fixated on flowers especially the little ones like baby-breath, forget-me-not, fairy-foxglove and windflowers.
These are beautiful paintings, don’t you think? A euphonious voice interrupted his negative thoughts about his exhibition.
I feel the artist is trying to tell the world how much they love the seemingly invisible things in life. She spoke again.
Do you know much about the painter? He asked without looking at her. And he knew they were both focusing on the painting in front of them, for some reason, he just knew that she wasn’t looking at him.
Not at all. I literally walked in here to get warm and stumbled into an exhibition. Life is like that, unexpected pleasure.
He could hear the smile and even joy from her voice.
And I try not to read or research the artist before I look at their paintings anyway. I want to really see them through their work rather than filtered opinions, if you know what I mean.
I kinda know what you mean. You want to experience first-hand the inner world of the artist rather than an interpretation from others.
Correct! For all I know, this painter could be a granny with saggy tits. But she is beautiful because her paintings are exquisitely beautiful.
You really think so?
What? The granny with saggy tits, or the paintings are exquisite?
Now the left side of his face was burning, he knew she was looking at him. He turned to her with an uncontrollable grin, the painting, and the granny too.
I am not much an art person; I mean I am not professionally trained. These paintings look abstract to me. For some reason, I feel I saw little flowers or petals. Maybe this led me to believe the painter is a she, or feminine. The saggy tits are just my bad humour. She pulled her face and he love that witty look.
Excuse me, may I borrow the artist from you, mam? He was pulled away from her by the gallery curator to the rugged area which served as a stage. It was time for him to deliver the thank you for coming speech and close the exhibition.
I want to say thank you to you all for coming tonight to my first exhibition. I am sorry that if you end up catching a cold because of the stuffed central heating. I will suggest you buy one of my paintings to wipe your noise with, I know the paper I used, they are suitable for sanding your nose.
Jokes aside, I didn’t expect anyone would come tonight, and yet you are here. You may not get my paintings, I know, I know they are not everyone’s cup of tea. But I feel supported, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
I know at least one of you get me as an artist and what I try to express and share, and I am grateful for you, and I am glad you stumbled into my exhibition. He looked at her when he said that last few sentences.
Scars
He ran his paint stained fingers over the scars on his chest. They reminded him of the pleasure she gave him. The raised flesh was soft like her lips, and the memory of the demeaning words came from her lips made him hard. But a rush of sadness formed a stabbing pain in his heart.
He got out of bed and moved towards his studio, brought the half smoked weed with him. Continued to work on the painting, he wanted to finish it by dawn. he had already completed the sketch, and the lilac, pink and white windflowers covered most of the canvas. The final touch was to work on the detail of the ugly weathered window where the viewer would see the field of windflowers from. He might go over the field of windflowers with a wash of rain, might not. His mind was scattered by the earlier encounter with her.
He took a drag of the weed, not sure why he smoked it, it had no effect on him whatsoever. She hated him smoking. Was it the rebel in him, or being spiteful, or making a statement of his new found freedom, or an attempt to distract himself from thinking of her? Without any warning, he was all choked up by the lump in his throat trying to move up to release into salt vapours.
Love You Till The End
I loved you when I was unsure if you would love me back.
I loved you when my heart broke into pieces because you weren’t sure if you loved me back.
I loved you on our wedding day when you asked me not to settle for the second best.
I loved you when you couldn’t love yourself.
I loved you when you shut yourself from me.
I loved you when you accused me of saying those hurtful words which I didn’t say.
I loved you till I stopped loving myself.
I couldn’t love you when I lost myself.
I loved you when you set me free.
I loved you when you became an old friend, and you finally loved me too.
I loved you till the day you died.
You are the greatest tragedy of my life, and I love you still.
Nature Declares
My heart is an island
Your eyes are the ocean
Your shoulder is the land
Our love shimmers
from the view of an airplane
Cut up Poem
If I cut up
our love
with well worn time
Instead of creating
a new fairy tale
I write a memoir
of resurrection
Flicker of Thoughts 