New Old Cold!

I stood there
Anaesthetized and
Frozen to the sidewalk,
Engulfed by the echo
Of a whistling windchill
That found my skin
Through layers
And overalls.
Cold and fear
Amalgamated with
Pinched memories
That spiked
Like shards
Of uneven glass
Splintering through
Follicles of gooseflesh.
I pictured his kind face
Like a hologram
That stood out
And blended
Within the crowd.
Prickled skin
Softened to faith,
And sensation
Kicked in
As I held that
Accustomed cup
Of sublime heat.
I quickly learned
To jumpstart
My world
To the present.
To the love that
Brought me back
To a country
Long left behind.
When suddenly
Those relentlessly
Nipping reflections
Of minus degree'd
Hardships
Melted softly,
Like the season's
First snowflake
That assimilated
Into this
Untouched mug
Of caffeinated delight.







* For 3WW

** For Theme Thursday

*** Photo Credit: Design-Dautore

Vapours of Adolescence

They had been assigned to his supervision today. But with an easel, pencils and an open landscape before him, their mother's words seemed like a distant blur.

She picked up the soiled ochre-stained end of his old habit and tried salvaging what was left of those listless smoke rings. Prodding the bolstered side between her lips, she clenched her teeth into that bitter sponge.

And waited.
For his disapproval.

His nubile eighteen-year-old mind looked through her at the hillock beyond.
She inhaled the innards of the tobacco filter and coughed out faint puffs of juvenile rejection.

With a slanting gaze she held on to the cigarette.
His disinterest gave Lolita her muse.

* For 3WW

**Photo Credit: 'Candy Cigarette' by Sally Mann

An Incubation

Loosening her poke bonnet, Kathy sat there in red velvet-laced overalls, observing the chaos outside. No respectable young girl in her right mind should stand witness to an open-aired brawl.

A man of colour was being graced by a volley of stamps, blows and kicks by a riotous mob of angry white men.

“He had the audacity to bring flowers to Jonathan’s daughter!” exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner as she looked disdainfully outside the window. She stared towards Kathy and Anne with tears of concerned fury, and gulped her tea with intended impoliteness.

“Put a halt to your thoughts! I will not have any of my girls bring such scandals into our honest home. Do not even think of disgracing your father’s honour, young ladies,” she warned with a scornful index finger in their faces.

Anne excused herself lackadaisically from the breakfast table. Kathy continued eating silently, as the blood rushed to redden her Caucasian cheeks. She cut her omelette with precision, but had suddenly lost her appetite.

James did differ from all the other men in the village. He treated her like a lady and caressed her like she was a queen. His queen. As an artist, his dark inventive hands were accustomed to creating magic on any surface. Sometimes he’d paint her, sometimes for her. Moulding love on a potter’s wheel, his hues brought his muse to life. They would spend hours imagining a future that was freed from the shackles of race; of colour that bound them in separate, unblended water-tight niches of an artist’s abandoned palette.

Floating back from her thoughts she readjusted her bodice and walked towards her room. Tears flowed over her corset as she lifted her dress to touch his inked art on her canvassed skin.

She pulled down the layers on her tea gown, stood up and wiped the traces of heart-ache from her face.

The little black girl inside hadn’t yet found a way to face the world.

'Blessed' by Ray Caesar

* For 3WW
** An attempt at applying a Pre-Victorian style of flair and fluff.

*** Photo Credit: Ray Caesar

Beyond Ferraris

His fast red bullet of fire on four wheels,

Was abandoned in the middle of a highway lane.

Ye canst not ignore heartstrings on pinwheels,

When the epiphany of a beggar hath driven him insane.

The workings of karma befuddled his domain,

So he went to seek answers from an old abbot.

Giving up his fast car, the monk learned to sustain,

By finding nirvana on his newly bought yacht.

* For imaginary garden with real toads

** An attempt at the Huitain form of poetry, also called The Monk's Stanza

She Waited

Photo Credit: Maria Sardari

So she’d wait there after midnight, behind a curtained wall frame
Stealthily whispering whistles to call out my name
Dragging fearful memories with every stride
I’d take refuge in an old cupboard and hide
Peeking through the chink as she came

Her silhouette would burn with a platinum flame
Long soggy hair-strands would veil her shame
Soft sobs broke into screams as she cried
So she’d wait there after midnight.

This was the home she had hoped to claim
One that was etched with her future last name
Black-sooted droplets of tears had dried
She had longed to be an army man’s bride
He’d promised her the stars, but he never came
So she’d wait there after midnight.





* For imaginary garden with real toads
** My attempt at Rondeau Poetry rhyming, dedicated to Friday the Thirteenth 

Dream Stealers

Photo by Maria Sardari

Crisp, dry, rumpled autumn foliage served as a buttress to buffer her stance.
She stood there for hours, shuffling feet in rustling sounds.
But there was no way out.

Hours transitioned into weeks.
Weeks into habits.

Tight fishnet ropes of her limited mind left blue bruised criss-cross clots on limp ivory arms.

Thoughts that dressed in soldier clothes came rushing in from eight directions. They barricaded her from all sides and punctured the earth with shining silver switchblades. Standing in unity they threatened to pierce her hopes for change.

She glanced at them with fear-stricken eyes, almost resigning to her destiny.
But her Wheel of Fortune was at arm's reach, waiting for a fleety spin.
Pulling herself up she propped her feet on the ground choosing to fight and conquer self worth. With little strength and a lot of courage she commanded the mind: “Let’s wage war on the soldiers of YouCannot.”

Cannon balls of fire flew with that decision. Fears were bludgeoned. Insecurities were stabbed.  Determination and will power gave a tough fight. White flags were raised. The battle was over.

While unravelling the last few strands that bound her wrists, she looked around to confront a hidden enemy if she must.

There was nothing left of the Eight of Swords.





* For 3WW
** For the love of Tarot.
*** Photo Credit: Maria Sardari

Invisible Ideas

My mind
reads like
the open canvas
of a New
Word Doc.
Barren blankness
spread out thinly.
I rummage through
the recesses
of my brain
and hack hard
at the keyboard
without a flow
of thought.
Stream of
Consciousness
is a dwindling
brook with
spurts of water.
Little winged
black birds
dip into this rivulet
and splash across
the parched screen
with a voracious
appetite for
vocabulary.
Strung by the
invisible chord
of syntax
and the unused
facets of grammar,
they cluster
in seeming
randomness,
forming syllables
in a sharp
unbold typeface.
The birds are
backspaced
while other
clusters are
pasted elsewhere,
flapping wings
to stay together
as a whole.
Forced to migrate
from a different
starting point,
they fly across
with meaning
on their backs.
But where
the heck
is the damn
punchline?



* For imaginary garden with real toads
** An attempt to parody one's own style

Geisha Repainted

Porcelain perfection had managed to white-wash some of the grief. Wrinkles of helplessness that were cracking across her sallow skin now seemed like a chalky blur. The ghastly pale outlines of her moon-face were intercepted by two craters of sighted sadness. 

She poked open a new box of pomegranate red, and pulverized other shades of ruby, granite and plum into one thick paste of promised happiness. The brush strands dipped generously into that bloodied concoction, outlining new lips of joy over that stoic face.

He was her only son. She cringed at the thought of holding his lifeless 12-year-old body. Flashes of his drowning face kept clouding her eyes. 

She had busied herself all morning, preparing his favourite Oyakodon and Makizushi. But it sat there untouched, cold and listless, screaming to be fetched from the dining table. There was nothing more that could hamper her already broken spirit. 

Looking back into the mirror, she had lost herself. The mask taunted her world, thwarting every feeling that clotted and festered in her heart. Her caked happiness just sat there unchanged, quietly protecting the turmoil within from the pretense without.

The next client was still waiting for her, shaking his legs with uncontrolled anxiousness.

She wore her pretty clown face, and got back to work.

* For 3WW

An Afternoon Stroll

She rolled up her hair as she walked through a garden patch.
Beautiful tresses of black silk were fastened in place by sticks.
The groggy green frog sat there croaking by the road side.
Cutlery unwound to click away on unsuspecting street food.

* For imaginary garden with real toads

** An attempt at the Koan style of Chinese poetry 

Hark! Hark!

The Lark at heaven’s gate sings
like a snow Goth minstrel.

Halo punked and wings pierced,
she’s zipped her fawn boots to the knee.
With lips that ope to concert lights,
she head bangeth to a little rhapsody.

A newly wired electronic harp
finds psychedelic love in angel tunes.
Soulful notes are amplified
through manna snorted melodies.

She screeches for thee, oh human one
To shuffle off that mortal coil
For heaven paints a picture bright,
but it ought not to be as bad.

* For: imaginary garden with real toads

** Inspired by a few lines from the 'Bard.'

That Cuppa Joe's

Photo by Margaret Bednar

Sitting there with his demitasse,
shards of thoughts made a word cloud
in his fragmented mind
and brought pointillism on cheap tissue.

He pressed the nib
on his single lined writing pad,
making the ink bleed into
damp latte-stained rings of patience.

But the sentences of expectation
had abandoned the creative mind,
leaving the contours of a cursive hand
with nothing to write.

He bridged two coffee circles
with a half-mooned hairline
and filled the spaces below
with irises of joy.

Doodling his way down
the writer found his muse,
the artist beamed at the big picture,
for Mickey Mouse was born.



* For imaginary garden with real toads
** Photo Courtesy: Margaret Bednar

Gretel's Grouse

He rammed his head and cracked one of those cellophane licorice windows open. The gingerbread walls were crumbling at the scaffolding. He struggled to elbow one of the beams, but the chain around his limbs allowed for little movement.

Gretchen, a pedophile cannibalistic witch of the west, was preparing a new feast of plum cherry clafoutis with vanilla whipped cream. Muttering complicated incantations through cavity-eaten teeth, she skimmed through new dessert specials to fatten him up before the big sacrifice.

But where the heck was Gretel?

Gretel seduced Gretchen’s sharp tongue with a bowl of the previous kid’s leg in caramelized apples for dinner. The witch's lenient eyes rolled to the top of her head and she began to sleep, alternating snores with grizzly whistles.

So the sister managed to tiptoe into the hay barn the night before, promising the fattened elder sibling of a way out.

“Her life lies within the bugs on her bed!” discovered Gretel. “Tomorrow night it is. I’ll just fog up the bedpost and fumigate her to death,” she laughed.

But with peach melbas, pistachio macarons, lime-curd meringues and mango mascarpones on Gretchen’s menu for the week, Gretel had a slight change of heart.

She continued poaching pears of perfection as ideas kept brewing in her head. With Hansel on the back burner, she knew she could create magic on a plate. 

Chuckling at her new idea she gave Gretchen a wry smile.

Cause the next season's title of ‘Junior MasterChef Australia’ was going to be hers.

* For 3WW

Unformed

Mouth to mouth
I breathe out
And fog up the reflection.
Soundless droplets of mist
Cling to mercurial glass
And sit there, holding on
To words that haven’t
Been conceived yet.

There’s a twinge
In the pit of my stomach
A seed of life
That has promised to sprout.
My innards have coiled down
With a patchwork of bulky nerves
Thatched together to create
That perfect nest.
As I crumple into the sink
And vomit yellow bile words
But no one hears a thing.

I walk into the closet
And raise my tee shirt.
Cupping both palms
Around the navel
I look through its passage
Into that kaleidoscope of life
Where the umbilical
Connects to the netherworld
With those gone away,
With those dead.

I look into its father's eyes
Dilated brown irises
That collapse
With unconditional love
As I resign the world
In silent deep sleep.

* For 3WW
** For Imaginary Garden 

A Wednesday

She stood there in the cold, dressed in a faux fur coat and leather overalls. Flicking her wrist, she raised the tobacco-stained ochre end to her trembling lips and filled her lungs with pretentious comfort. She stubbed the last ultra-mild under her stiletto and strutted towards his car.

This was not the first time.

He would park his black Sedan at the corner of Mt. Vernon street on Wednesday nights, and wait outside Delilah’s till she had wrapped up for the day. She’d hop in and they’d head to a pre-booked suite at a wayside inn.

Mr. Maloney was a reputed judge who had spent 30 years of his life to serve the law. He was a dedicated husband, a devoted father, and a man whose career panned out without a blotch on his reputation. Tina wasn’t his first escort, but there was something about her that kept drawing him back to Delilah’s. He never realized that his mild interest in this pretty young thing would grow into a form of wild obsession.

For three months they met once a week in discrete motels on the outskirts of Philadelphia, and this Wednesday was no different. They headed straight to the room and ensured that their murmurs of pleasure would be confined within the walls of these unfamiliar hotels.

He lay on his side as she pulled out her well-concealed revolver from behind her garter. She sat there in her corset holding the cold nozzle onto his temples. Closing her eyes, she clenched her index finger and splattered his brains out on the pillow that cushioned his head.

“That’s for Sammie’s sentence!” she breathed with relief knowing that it had taken her three years to bring her plans to fruition. Wiping the threads of blood from her face, she touched the gold band that was still clinging to her ring finger.

The praying mantis walked out without fear, as the sounds of the gun kept ricocheting through paper-thin walls.

* For 3WW

Our Inexplicable Love for Gadget-Squealers!

It’s amazing how you look back at your lot when you’ve looked away for a bit. We Indians are obsessed with little inventions that can scream, screech, shriek, belch, beep or cheep (like listening to your neighbor yell at his wife down the street wasn’t enough!).

Let’s put us in an analogy. We are to small squawking devices like the Japanese are to a camera trigger. What is it that makes our Indian gene so hyperactive when we see a little machine at arm’s distance?

Hitting the honk button for the 7th time in a row will not take you anywhere! If you stopped playing ‘snake’ or 'angry birds' (or whatever else you use to twiddle your thumbs) for a bit and dug your face out of your phone screen ever so often, you’d notice that the light is still Red. The odd chance that it is Green doesn't justify your need to go palm-happy on the steering wheel. You don't need a degree in math to count the five cars between you and the open road!

Ditto for calling the elevator shaft to your assigned floor. It’s a mechanism with a set trajectory that sometimes does have a mind of its own. But it's not a wish-box! (Stop looking for the I-live-at-the-Empire-State-building pity vote!) Contrary to your continued expectation, poking and jabbing at the little arrowed button will not make it appear out of nowhere. Tried and Tested.

And thanks for making me jump out of my skin with the 4 continuous ting-tongs outside my door. Yes yes, getting my daily dose of packetted milk at 6:30 in the morning ranks very high on my emergency list! (I agree, you’re concerned that I might develop osteoporosis in the future, but 4 doorbell alerts? At six-effin-thirty in the a.m.? Like seriously?)

Going by this list, I would’ve easily concluded that we’re a lot that's just always in a hurry. I won't discount that completely, but on careful speculation, I know it’s more than that. As much as we try to hide our li'l secret, we just love gizmo-induced sounds! Period. So much for cheap thrills and vulgar joys.

How else would you explain the need to download annoyingly loud sms tones to your already busy phone! Isn’t the cacophony of conversation doing its bit for you? Why would someone, in their right mind, wish to endure listening to a baby bawl or a cow moo endlessly if they didn’t secretly love being sadistic? It might seem like fun the first time around. But when you get a string of 30 sms with the same baby crooning for help, I’d want to thwack the little thing and put it to rest!

Grah!

An Outage

Tight deadlines kept looming in. Her planner looked disgruntled with over-booked appointments. Work was almost always on her mind.

He was working on his PhD in Philosophy and had gotten used to having conversations with Descartes and Nietzche at the dinner table.

It was 8:30pm. She stepped into the apartment and walked straight to the kitchen, scrolling through the New York Times on her iPad. She gave him a wry smile, mechanically picked out a pack of frozen selects and dumped them into the microwave.

“Wow! They’re expecting a complete power outage in the city tonight!!” she gasped, mentally calculating the amount of work she had left until the next day.

Before he could respond to her, the lights made a slight hissing sound and the bulbs began to flicker. Within seconds they sat there in total eclipse, fumbling around familiar objects within the unaccustomed shadow within their space.

He reached out for the first drawer but couldn’t locate the torch or the spare candles that were still there before her last birthday. She panicked and grumbled, irritated at him for not being prepared for this in time.

He came over to her side and held her by the shoulders, concerned that she might trip over the paraphernalia in the dark. They stood there in complete silence, which was only broken by the soft whistles of the wind that came from the draft above the kitchen table.

He calmly pulled out his cellphone as his guiding light, and rummaged through the refrigerator for baby spinach, plum tomatoes, red onions and cottage cheese, dicing the ingredients before they were tossed in with olive oil and some seasoning.

He poured two glasses of zinfandel with their meal, and switched on her eReader.

Eating quietly with make-shift candles in the dark, they sat there in absolute serenity having a meaningful iPad-light dinner.



*For 3WW
**Photo Credit


 

Shutterbug Souvenirs

Times Square

They stood there
Captured
In the middle of the crowd.

A moment of bliss
Seized
Amidst seconds of pretend poses.

The frenzy of travel
Stamped
Across their postcard-couple faces.

Episodes of uninhibited joy
Confined
Within the boundaries of the four by four.

With "I heart New York"
Marked
To sign off that adventure.

One that began eight years ago,
Sealed
With knickknacks of vows made in the Big Apple.

Trinkets of fond memorabilia, now
Boxed
In a carton of cardboard from the past.

Little pieces of glossy paper that stood
Unfazed
Next to the menagerie by the mantlepiece.

Clap Clap!

Have you ever hated someone so much that you just got up and started applauding as soon as she got done with her act?
(No no, I'm not particularly talking to you, oh nominee-for-the-best-actress-award-who-just-sat-there-clapping-for-the-winner.) I know how you feel, but I'm referring to a whole other gamut of emotions here.

I never thought I could have so much hatred. So much animosity. So much anger for the female form.
But when you get up everyday at 3:30am, and start applauding aimlessly in the dark, you know you can't feel very appreciative. And when two mosquitoes decide to play join-the-dots on your body, you know you want to show feminism the finger.

I'm just this close to wishing that there was someone who'd gas those bitches in one big mosquito genocide!

Mosquitoes! Those vicious, ruthless, blood-sucking monsters that leave itchy red mounds of ugliness on skin, are ALL FEMALE!!

Apparently, they look for a smooth surface on bare (freshly waxed?) skin and meditate on landing quietly hoping that you're either asleep, numb, dead or too thick skinned to care. They whisk out their proboscis and stick it into you (erm...this surely doesn't sound very lady-like now). And while you're too busy focusing on sleep, they burp on your blood and hi-five to the other bitches on the number of Bloody Mary(s) they just consumed.

And for what purpose? Erm... for the noble cause of being a Mother.

Waiddaminute! They need MY red blood corpuscles, to nurse and raise a new swarm of pests who can come back and bite me on the bum? Again?

I'm telling you. One way or the other, children are EVIL!