My son and I have much in common – from our introvert temperament to love for reading and writing. Last summer during a long Covid19 lockdown in India, which was labelled by some media houses as one of the toughest, my son asked me about blogging. I explained it was an online journal, diary, or a place to share thoughts and stories and engage with like-minded followers.
I told him I used to blog and can set up a blog for him. That is how I restarted blogging in an all-new blog space, which is this, and he got a brand new blog – www.blackpenstrokes.wordpress.com. What I find endearing is that he still writes his “private journal” by hand. Though, I know it’s more to do with his love for stationery; again something he has acquired from me!
My mind melts, like ice on sherbet Under a pink moon In a summer glaze A resolve that breaks A resilience that fails Poison on the rocks Trickling into nooks Golden liquid, crimson tears Soothing with shallow intoxication Pain of the mind, not of the soul!
An Exercise in Self-Indulgence or a Supremely Intellectual Modern Satire
While going through a spate of reading mythological literature and fiction, I came across Amazon’s recommendation to read Shashi Tharoor’s The Great Indian Novel. Curiosity made me purchase the novel and few pages into the book I was recommending it to all readers with similar book interests. The intricacies of word play and the liberal usage of intelligent pun made this a humorous and enthralling read. It stands high on the pedestal of a modern satire and is impressive.
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.