The Breeze Beckons The Banshee
She felt pretty good for the first time in a long while.
Her ghastly bits were all nicely tucked in leggings
Or hidden beneath the bohemian flowy dress
Which she had hand-sewn from thrift-store bed sheets
To accommodate her constantly shifting form.
The canine in her chest bounded ecstatically
As she unearthed her cardigan from beneath the disused coats.
A smile crept across her glassy eyes as she flung open the front door.
She embarked on her private wander.
Beastly blues defeated,
Just as heat and cloy had been,
By the gentle conspirings of dew-dampened gusts.
It’s dark outside.
The world slumbers, all too comfortable to wake up, yet.
Some like you though, battle the waves of sleepiness for they have work to attend to.
Work, even if it’s still dark outside.
You grab your phone to just stop the incessant ringing.
I’m up, damnit.
You sit up as the world returns to blissful silence.
The cozy moment lingers for a second, when your face is hit by sharp air.
Shivering slightly, you rub your hands together to warm the frozen digits.
Time to get up.
You get out of bed, even as your entire body protests against it.
Quietly, you pad into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea.
The tea boils as you sluggishly go through your daily activities.
Pouring the tea into your favorite mug, you sit down for a moment.
Cradling the mug with both hands, you allow its warmth to seep into your fingers.
And for a while, it’s just you and the warm mug of tea– as you steal a few peaceful moments before the chaotic day begins...
Been home away for months
But then the regular call.
The family fights.
Mother calling a thousand times.
Father burning dinner.
They know I'm surely coming.
Taking my train.
Just like when i was little.
What can i get for everyone?
Calling for a hot coffee.
I'm freezing the evening.
Suddenly walking inside a store.
Discount posters everywhere.
I can finally buy a gift for my little sister.
But then some new toy is up on the market.
I bet she is contemplating about it.
Oh damn, its a hundred dollars.
My rent price.
I will probably find something else.
Haven't passed a street without a fat grey man.
I finally got to see a ukulele physically.
I have forty missed calls.
She all gets impatient.
Been home for three days now.
Everything like it used to me.
New neighbor, Boy looks cute.
Doubled cookie baking.
We are kinda many.
Mother hooks me up
With the cute neighbhour
How the star can't fit the tree top
But he's suddenly there
Picking me up from my fall
But sadly, I'm more rainbows than i look.
#SEASON #WRITER #IMAGINATION #SONG #FAT-MAN #AUTHOR #WRITING #COLOR
here you are again
here you are again; bringing with you
an array of blooms bursting with colour and fragrance, each magnificent in their own right. adorning trees once more in opulent garments, delightfully dancing in the rhythm of ocean tinged breezes. bringing with you the sweet ecstasy of warmth after the long tragic cold. here you are again; your subtle exuberance long-awaited in the frigid gloom. your song staunchly memorised and dreamily echoed in your absence..here you are again; breathing life into the air once more, the reason for pretty sundresses and joyous ice cream. inciting evening strolls guided by the splendour of scattered shards of light. here you are again, at last.
I roll over,
Clinging to warmth
That hides, trapped, beneath my blankets.
After a while I force myself out,
Into the frigid air.
I shiver as it steals my warmth,
I wrap myself in my blankets,
An improvised shield,
And head upstairs.
Later, as I eat my breakfast,
I look out my window,
Watching the horizon as it changes from pure black to navy blue,
Colors bouncing off of frost and thrown around by buildings.
I pull on my jacket,
Clothing myself in layers of fluffy fabric,
Sealing in warmth,
Protecting me from the frozen land outside.
As I head outside, I take a second:
Watch my breath billow in the late morning sunshine,
Hear the crackle of the nearby lake as the sun heats up the night air,
Feel my nose freeze, already beginning to stick together,
Smell the crisp scent of snow on the ground.
And as I start the long walk to my destination,
Snow starts to sprinkle from the sky,
(not enough to worry about my driveway,
and clearing it when I get home,)
But just enough to stretch out my tounge,
And catch one,
Tasting it before it melts,
A tiny pinprick of ice.
What season do I speak of?
What season do I speak of,
When I speak of mangoes and peaches ripe for the picking,
Of vegetable fritters ready for dipping,
And rain drops readily dripping
What season do I speak of,
When I talk of days stretching on much farther than the nights
And the sun casting wonderful hues of tea pink and lilac across the skies
Never truly fading until the clouds part giving way to starry maps?
What season do I speak of,
When I'm busy reminiscing of balmy air simmering with heat
And cool evenings spent sipping on bubbling hot tea
With my lover lying in my lap?
What season do I speak of, do tell when you remember,
Keep in mind however that it doesn't fall in September.
Freezing. Land of cold, ice-coated,
people and animals coated
There is a crystal in
a clock, my grandfather said. That is
how they tell time, refracted light and
endless ticking. This is the time of the
Snowflake, synonym of singularity
and shining rarity, nature’s best
this silent beauty that may kill.
Wasteland of white upon first look, but look
again –the birds whistle their tweeting lives in
reflected sun, and the planet shines back, a beacon
beckoning to the source of life.
Every color vivifies against the
frosted firs, screaming in endless verve at
surviving vivacity, sparkling laughter.
As the night falls, time stops –it’s too
cold for the clocks to tick or the ticks to
clock any prey. All is sweet hibernation,
nation of sleep, yet this is the killing cold.
Clusters of cuddling warmth
in caves and around hearth fires burning
against death, coddling the little ones closer.
Celestial ice shards into
stars and moonlight drips from the gutters.
Fluffed out deer crunch the snow softly,
and a child puffs out a fairy’s dream.
I can smell it coming, if I'm lucky that year. The frequency of rain slows. The days seem sad because they have to shut down earlier. Leaves fall like dry crispy papers.
The wind takes on unpredictable moods. Temperatures fluctuate and the cool days are appreciated. The trees begin to change into beautiful colors but not all of them. Ask an evergreen. I get a sense of preparing for winter.
A blanket covers the ground, but not enough
to make it stick. It stays on the leaves
though well past midday, until the sun
hits the ground just right and the hope
disappears. People pull off jackets.
They continue to complain about the day, but
in the back of their heads they're happy
it's not cold out just yet.
A Natural Palette
The sun rose
a brilliant explosion
of pink, gold and red
easing over the horizon
as I got out of bed
out the the window
at ground level
the dew sparkled with
a million prisms of
The hedge was crimson
now only a few green
The trees are golden,
with a few deep scarlet
and the orange of
pumpkin orbs sat right
white, purple and pink
dotted the path from
door to garage
what a word,
a spelling bee killer
with their daisy like
hues in bronze, gold,
violet, almost blue,
Climbing the stairs,
I pulled the sliding door,
In came the cat,
a rush of cold air
And at the stove
with her slippers and socks,
mom in her pj's
stirred the oatmeal pot
The first month of school
was almost over
I know as the days
pick and preserve
we gather the harvest
like the industrious ants
I've been taught to survive
although I wish to be
the grasshopper, today
to play in the crisp color
of clean morning air.