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?
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?
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.
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
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.