My broken heart, an artifact
In a spectacular box intact
Lying in tarnished pieces
With crumbling petals of roses
A Babushka doll, now faded
Holding a ring, long discarded
Stale memories wrapped
In tissue paper yellowed
Bury them all with me
When my tired soul flees!
It was more purple than green
An ugly gash refusing to heal
Salve nor balm, rest nor restrain
Strong enough to erase the pain
A bruise so blue, a crimson tear
Sweet hurt with trembling fear
Yet, I tend to these injuries deep
Purge the venom, not let it seep
Into crevices of my soul so grim
Discard memories like dead skin
What are we but fragile jarsOf intricate masonryDoes the Creator carve us allOn a whim and fancy!Loaded to the brim; half-empty stillStained glass or run-of-the-mill?Crystal walls, what potion fillsLabelled to hide bitter pills?Marinations, fermentationsTranslucent concoctions,Sugared candies, mushy jelliesMilky relish, chocolate drizzlesPungent, zesty, tangy, savoryAroma, flavors, colors manyLike sticky, sweet memoriesOr just vitreous fantasiesClosed tight, gentlyContinue reading “Mason Jars”
Like strawberries crushedTo sweeten marmaladeA heart painedIs shred to bitsBitter sweet memoriesRuddy peels in jelly mushSitting still in fragile jarsLingering fragranceMyriad flavors on the lipsFingers now sticky withSoulful tales to spread!
Books were bought with care and cherished; not hoarded into digital spaces because someone recommended the next best-seller. Reading was not competition; it was relaxation.
Far from civilization, in extreme weather conditions, no connectivity, living each day in disciplined rhythm, probably the soldiers also wait for the colourful, boisterous tourists to arrive at their sentinel!
Tiny tots like him walk to school on weekdays with siblings, trotting dangerously along the edge. It is scary but they look unperturbed, their cheeks red under the clear mountain sun.
They say sights make lasting memories and a touch imprints forever. However, it was the smells that lie splattered across her memory-scape. This story traces an olfactory journey of a lifetime as she put pieces together, wondering what lies next. 1980 – It is the smell of soap – an expensive luxury bar of whiteContinue reading “Memoryscape”
They run throughThe sunlit groveSummer in their hairSweat clinging to strandsSun-kissed nowSunburnt at duskIt bothers not muchFor childhood is aboutFruit orchardsYellow fieldsAn amusing prank hereA scraped knee thereMaking memoriesBefore the sun sets!
Did the strings breakOr the melody die outWere they so complexThe words and the sounds?Composing emotionsDid you fall into the trapOf raking up memoriesKept under a wrap?Now here’s a whimperThere a mad laughterGrief from the pastRises in dark spectre!