Tempest of Hate

Frenetic winds of chaos
Blowing in our face
An ever-growing frenzy
Throwing us in a daze
Stunned, a few wonder
At this tempest of hate;
Where did we learn to
Speak in tongues false
Write in crooked ways
When did we go silent
And chose to turn away?
Is there hope still
For truth and trust,
To recover our lexicon,
Or all is lost in this storm?

Balancing Act

I am wandering, wondering
How to balance life
To surrender or strive
To capture the moment
Or let the memories fly by!
In the space between thoughts
Where I often feel lost
I am seeking answers
To saunter, gallop, or stop?

Daily Grind

Sublime requests
Of my creative mind
Overturned by demands
Of a cerebral strife.
Shackled to cubicles,
Paints and brushes
Paper and ink
Yarn and hooks
Painfully exchanged
For butter and bread.
Amusing musings
Garrulous silence
Thoughts playing
Hide and seek in
My restive mind
Wanting to break free
Of the daily grind.
Unfinished pages now
Brittle and yellow
Mocking blank canvas
Waiting for a splatter
Of pictures and words.
My mind is where
I left the crochet hook
An unfinished work
I can’t wait to unravel
Start the lace afresh
As new patterns emerge.

Wrinkled Memories

Time after time
I return to the glade
Of joyous thoughtscape
Silver dandelion
Golden sunrays
Aroma of a picnic lunch
Love notes in the basket
In windswept letters
On fragile paper
Gossamer stories
Of loving, leaving, longing
Blowing in the breeze
With yellow petals
Wrinkled memories

Edge of the Map

It was a sultry afternoon. The day stretched endlessly, waiting for twilight. The orange popsicles stained his tongue but didn’t quench his thirst. He wasn’t sleepy for lack of physical activity. He read books, heard songs on his laptop, played mobile games but time stood still, fatigued by the heat of the Indian summer.

Bored, he picked up his drawing kit and started sketching a treasure map to reach the fabled pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He drew ardently, painstakingly filling vibrant colours in the verdant landscape, flora, and fauna. The emerging terrain captivated him. He paid attention to every tiny detail. The sound of wax crayons against white paper, echoed the unstoppable rhythm in his delicate fingers.

Beyond the tanned mountains, arched the seven colors of mystic beauty. At the corner of the sheet, a speck glimmered. He added final touches to the elusive gold and rested the point of his crayon, in a finishing move, just as the first star of the night rose in the burnished horizon. In the twinkle of its light, with sweat beads on his brow, he sailed through the azure skies, having fallen from the edge of the map.

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