Upon a flower

-
Oh, Velvet
Your contradictions changed cyan to crimson
And your root given threads embellished your petals 
What makes you imbue this devastating hue
In all that is ephemerally mine? 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Soup

-
As I cut the onions, mashed the tomatoes Heated the oil, brought the water to boil Sautéed the garlic, Threw in the macaroni I realised, something else was cooking Because the soup wasn’t good-looking And the pasta was under.   But their clutter was the only dialogue That cleared the smoke.   The conflict that rose and settled Bandaged what was broke.   Nobody wanted it, the soup   It was cooked after dinner-time   In a rush, fifteen minutes to be precise   Everyone had it, to be nice   Alas, somebody had to digest   That whirlwind of a storm   Or it would lie hovering on my kitchen top Besides my mind.   And I would keep ruminating over it   Like I did the raw bell peppers   In a bid to make sense   Of our reel in rewind.  
Read more

Never one

-
To harbour an idea, (I won’t say dream for that seems needlessly embellished for this piece) for a good many days, months and even years, having gone through very distinct phases – of thinking it in the first place, of establishing it as one to pursue, of wanting to act upon it but not, of acting upon it and failing, to actually achieving it has served as an eye opener of the first order for me, and though I don’t completely comprehend its ramifications, here’s what I have understood so far.  For once in all my years, I set out to chase something that I believed (and believe) would ultimately become my profession. At last, to the relief of many and myself, I had a singular direction and the only visible trajectory was forwards in a linear motion. Though I am not one for jotting notes, it was all charted in my mind, organized according to serial number, colour and topic. I’d do the usual and achieve something mind-bogglingly grand. I’d escape the nest to find my calling and...
Read more
-
“Shery Beneavou, Sir. 24, in years. 24 years in flux. Kind hearted, with a gentle disposition and a tasteful genetic make-up. Ideal girl. She’d come home with flowers and chocolates. Balm to a tiring day. Rosemary pink in spring, sky blue in the summer. A-liners, halters and racer-backs. The usual girl. Movies and popcorn, apple tarts and cheesecakes with berries on top. A vague girl. Now, don’t misunderstand me, I pray you, but make an allowance for me to call her a floating paradox. A paradox of conceptions. A genuine, but ridiculous nevertheless, idealist. A cat in a bucket of water. It’s true, sir! A gnawing cat. A pretty combination, a doleful combination… Insurgent. Like a queer wave on a low tide day. By Jesus, the heroic misery in her voice! Carefully crafted stories of pittance. Careful, but flawed, sir. I could read them all. I could read her. Nothing in there. Stories give her purpose. Pardon me, sir, but these stories she weaves for purpose. For recreation...
Read more