Perch

Entry for 27th Nov's 3WW

Sparrows, curious
over cluttered urban rests,
inevitably wary.

Circle

Entry for 17th Nov 3WW Entry

Aggression:
Exhaust words,
heighten distortion,
light limits.

Heighten:
Light up words,
exhaust distortion,
aggression limited.

Limited:
Lights exhausted,
words distorted,
heightened aggression.

Seam

Dirges do not accompany these dead,

heads immersed in madness lay down the laws

- draws open wide their eyes and holds them apart,

depart not, drift not apart - where the wails have gone?

- Don black instead, indulge in sullen stares at the sky above.

Doves come by and grip the dead's floating tress,

bless-ed winged ones prefer to fly off decaying spawls,

caul shadows over October's shallow seam,

gleam like stars across a sky hooded in grey,

stay, stay - a few lingering clouds call by,

try, ignore and fly back over the white lane,

lanes with no trails to guide,

glide in silence over these lands too painful to rest,

rest not, lest the thread come apart.

Ficciones

Frames of fiction fall oft an inch or two short,

an empty pane having to cede and pander to reality.

Authorial fingerprints smudge the written word,

sentences are collapsing bridges requiring columns of real meaning to hold them up.

Paws of memories advance through the fictional realm,

shuffling over the blind spots, the present fudged

by what is not.

A Trap

There is a trap, a rattrap,

wielding a passive lure -

like all traps,

a thick slice of kernel between its lips,

set like the one in the bedroom,

beneath the bed where mom and dad sleep,

and the other in the kitchen,

next to the aluminium canister filled with sugar,

and another beside the fridge,

the Amul butter in it, melting faster

than the candle lit in the living room,

where the family is assembled,

blinkered, in silence, abrupt, around the table

the table with a remote control on it, awaiting

the resuscitation, of pixelated images

of life peeled, bleached which is now ,

like the visor of the Splendour

parked outside, bright red which was

once, when there were no rats.

War

A bit of a delay. This is the 3WW entry for the previous week's prompt.


Forsaken limbs' trial

in the infernal;sculpted

praise-gentle or vulgar?

Let them be

From the footsteps of a bus,

the polymath proclaims:

Never erase those flashes of thoughts

that flicker in your mind.

Come rain or sun, like

hays from the meadows,

spread them out to shine.

Let them be and foment.

Free the reins and let loose the anarchy of chance.

In time, the traces left will coalesce

and ideas will arise from the subliminal trance.

Thresh

[My entry for this week's 3WW prompt]

---

Yesterday,

amid the pouring rain,

in a building standing tall, unhidden,

a cup of coffee was had,

the most beguiling view of the sea admired,

the sea attired,

in the same blue as the sky.

In the mind of the one

engaged in a sempiternal roam,

a question naturally arose -

could he afford the same view

a day or two later?

The man with the answer,

a bard prepossessed with his noble shrine,

prevaricated thus:

to the immortal is known the age of the world

and to death is known the future.

In other words, no.

Summer Sonata

[My entry for this week's Three Word Wednesday]

From a mosquito the hum that escapes,

a stifled imagination seeks to rhyme

and divine, the nature of their whine:

Is it the scraping of their twin bayonets

on ruddied whetstones, as in wait they lain?

Is it the vibrant hymn they sing, the battle cry,

before they pierce and cause nettling pain?

Is it the howl of gloat from these miniature rigs

after slurping the blood they drained?

Or is it the wail uttered by these guardians

of Dracula's lost soul, for all their slain?

From a mosquito a hum escapes,

and this imagination seeks to rhyme,

the nature of divine.

The String Theory

Where is the sign that

Happiness will find us out,

In time, in this life and not in outer space? But

Never here, never after, never again

Is what is written all around.

No point hanging around here,

Goodbye! is what we hear;

So we leave; leave for the emptiness we have in store.

Vida Perra

Its a little wobbly.

---

Us, we love dogs. They are what we ever want to be but scarcely are: loyal. Their barks, can they ever be anything but inane gibberish that all of us hear but neither understand nor care to interpret? Of course, we love them. We don't treat them as dogs do we?. Never. We care for them. Some even feed them more than what themselves would consume.

Them, do they ever even listen to what we go on about? Do they understand what we tell them when we hold them, raise them so that their eyes could meet ours, pat their heads and show our affection in other ways we are wont to? Do they ever realise that some of us are paid to walk them over cobbled pavements and manicured greens?

---

Life is a bitch.

---

O thy ruler,

when you jumped off your steed after the war,

to try and make sense of what you saw,

and were benumbed by the pile of mortal remnants that battles spew,

the dismembered limbs, the rusted guts, the impaled hearts,

the invisible sweat and tears of those who were just as human as you,

for a fleeting moment or two,

were you tempted to lie there,

to become what lies ever want to be,

but never are:

to be true?

---