A Rorschach Butterfly

Supporting the spine of that threadbare book, he quickly leafed through those worn-out pages. The letters spluttered across the sheet in random bunches, hanging onto the lines like it were a cliffhanger. The typeface cunningly realigned itself and spread out its gossamer sail, to take its new reader through a well traversed route.

The tired characters had said the same lines and repeated their actions across all 1495 pages. They walked across pages and complained about arthritic pain.

“We’ve been overused and forgotten. No one remembers us for our valiance!”  Can one always care about the new reader when the repetition feels so degenerate? So the main characters went on strike, probing the weaker ones to take sides. They plunged away from the staple seamed center and chose to float away, drifting apart on pages that chose different directions.

He reached out to the now emaciated book in his hand, and gathered irrelevant parts of the main story. And mused as he gathered the ripped sheets, trying to make sense of the whole from its scattered parts.
He critically analyzed the story-line, finding fault in the one who penned this plot. 

Thinking he'd nailed the epiphany of the author, when he hadn’t even left the shore. 

* For 3WW** Photo - The Landscape with Butterflies by Salvador Dali

Motions of Emotion

With scabs that covered craters on the surface,
she camouflaged the scars that ran deep.
Her skin prickled into pearly white mountains
as vagrant thoughts left her gravitating towards him.
Drawing attention through tidal waves,
she influenced seventy percent
of what he was made of,
but let go of the imaginary reigns
that controlled him.
He scoffed away, sullen and adamant,
to create a distinct new revolution,
to stand out from the other eight,
to leave a mark in the universe.
So she stood there at a little distance,
trying hard to hold her ground.
and silenced her irrational impulses,
by orbiting around his space.

Because he was her world.

* For imaginary garden with real toads

** For 3WW*** Photo courtesy LayoutSparks

Swan Song

Clinging to the contours of her calf muscles,
the fine thread-work of motherly innocence
dipped its silk, and licked the surface
of those still grey waters.

The voices in her head had made their peace,
when the argument met with a quiet scream.
The blood on her hands had curdled
from the blood of her womb.
Squinting to salvage the last tear in her eye,
she ambled stoically to the middle of the lake.
and saw the rejected duckling
murmur softly in the glistening black waters.

The broad-laced wide-eyed bodice
sprawled around and braced her frame.
Pivoting on one foot, she swiveled
to bury the remains of her seed under her sole.
Swirling on ripples of unwashable guilt,
she tried her best to spiral downwards,
and wished to drain away
through that wide gaping manhole.

But the black swan sat there cursed
to a cold world sans imagination,
for never again would she find herself
tumbling down that rabbit hole.





* For 3WW

**Photo Credit: Actor Lisa Dwan in Beside the Sea captured by the lens of Graeme Robertson

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