Birds

 Art: Pascal Campion

Free-spirited birds
take shelter in the rain.
Their wings need rest
from all the flying.
It is a brief pause,
a moment of peace.
Before the storm clears
and they brace their air-destinations
with grace and faith.

100 words for a week. Day 7.

                           Stream-of-Semi-Consciousness

It started with that damn lemon platt.
And Joyce's Ulysses.
How the fuck can someone write so jaggedly and get away with it?
I would shoot myself if I was his Editor.
But then, I would also be super talented if I was Joyce's Editor.
Ah.
If only.
I wanted to be great. But now I'm part of these hacks Pope and Swift used to make fun of.
Well, there can only be one Poet Laureate in the world and it isn't me.
So, coming back to Stream-of-consciousness.
Where is my mind is a song by the Pixies and features in the movie 'Fight Club',
I have never watched it but I heard the song after my best friend died.
No, I don;t want to discuss Death.,
Oh look, it's 1:43 a.m.
More on that later.
Have I really met my 100 word quota?

100 words for a week. Day 6.

Dare to be Diffe-rant.

Sometimes, you do things that surprise even yourself. Things happen that you never thought would. And it's okay. I believe in a larger plan. There are patterns in the Universe that we can only dream about and then, not even that.

You get saturated of something and you need a break. And you realise a few things. Sabbaticals always help. You're always thinking, creating, working- even when you're not.

I would like to tell myself- that it's completely okay to be doing what I'm doing now.

Because, well, some are born with a break, some achieve a break and some have a break thrust upon them.

Lotsa love to my well-wishers.

And a super special shout-out to my rock, the one who has kept me going through all this- Mr. Patel, whenever you read this, please take a bow.

:)

(Yes, I know this is less than 100 words. But can you imagine, me creating a cartoon story-board thingy?)

100 Words for a week. Day 5.

  The Ballerina

Her body resonates an electric charm.
She joins her wrists
and twirls.
Her footsteps tread
like dew on flower,
Her hair is dotted with pearls.

Each curve contoured,
 the mirror reflects
her lithe limbs stretched
out-
Prettily poised, a Degas masterpiece-
waiting to be sketched.

Her silver skirt flares around
as she turns on her toes,
About and about.
And the world is a swirl of colour and light.

and it would have continued if it wasn't for that one night...

Her weary wheelchair passes her old studio -
Her balance and grace never faded-
Though she stopped dancing years ago.

100 Words for a week. Day 4.

                     

 Unveiling Love

Seema felt a twang of doom in her rib-cage as she heard the once familiar, now forgotten name echoed across her office-floor.
"Asaf Ali Mashoor! New poet on the block. He's on the line."
She nodded furiously at her Sub-Editor, but he didn't seem to understand her agitation.
 In fifteen minutes, she put down the receiver slowly. She had agreed to edit his upcoming book, 'Unveiling Love.'

***
That weekend, Seema sat alone in her cubicle, stifling a sob.
She didn't understand what hurt her more-
that there wasn't a single word about her.
Or that the object of Asaf's affection had always been-
her older brother.