Safe haven-

Safe haven-

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If you are a lover of rainbows,
A dreamer when the sun is about,
A reader whilst the crowd is gathering,
For worldly pleasures and fun.

A foodie when your mind is spinning,
A sleeper whilst the shadow is around,
A prayer unknots from your tongue on,
the days when the hours seem long.

If you know you are normal,
But have been called weird,
If you are a dreamer,
But have been named belle,
If you are religious,
But have been called prude,
If you love the written,
But have been called nerd.

Welcome to my world,
Of papers and words,
A safe haven for dreamers,
With no need to conform.

Writer’s quote: Erin Hanson

Writer’s quote: Erin Hanson

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Hello, and welcome to writer’s Quote/poem Wednesday, where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors. Today’s poet is a 22 year old Australian,
Erin Hanson, who is hands down, my favourite poet from among millennials. Read her poems and you will find out why.

Marilyn Monroe once said, “Wanting to be someone else is a waste of the person you are“, and that, right there is truth. We forget sometimes, that the soul within our body and the heart encaged by our ribs are enough to reflect who we are. Everything else are just bonuses, beauty, hair, size, wealth, they are just extras.

We shouldn’t let them define our worth or give them more value than the fickle nature which they truly are. What happens is, when we value them more than should be, when we let them define us, we lose ourselves and we lose our identity with their loss and it shouldn’t be that way. We are much much more than than that. We have an identity behind the clothes and the cars and the jobs, we are a person first. Those things, should always come second.

Below is a poem which talks about letting ourselves be defined by all the things we are NOT.

Not by Erin Hanson

You are not your age,
Nor the size of clothes you wear,
You are not a weight,
Or the colour of your hair.
You are not your name,
Or the dimples in your cheeks,
You are all the books you read,
And all the words you speak,
You are your croaky morning voice,
And the smiles you try to hide,
You’re the sweetness in your laughter,
And every tear you’ve cried,
You’re the songs you sing so loudly,
When you know you’re all alone,
You’re the places that you’ve been to,
And the one that you call home,
You’re the things that you believe in,
And the people that you love,
You’re the photos in your bedroom,
And the future you dream of,
You’re made of so much beauty,
But it seems that you forgot,
When you decided that you were defined,
By all the things you’re not.

Flash Fiction: Home

Flash Fiction: Home

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Jacob watched the world below him unfold. Standing on the roof top of one of the many dilapidated buildings at 23rd Avery. The kids were playing football and would probably keep at it until the sky turned a deep red.

He watched with a ting of sadness, playing statistics in his head- only 2 out of every 7 of those kids would make it to college; most of them would have the misfortune of being jailed at least once; and thanks to the gang bangers, a few of them might not even live to celebrate their 30th birthday.

He stood, oblivious to the shouting going on below. His neighbourhood was dying, both metaphorically and literally. The violence was at a whole new peak, the buildings were collapsing, even the tree leaves had turned a weary brown.

But, he smiled. It was still his neighbourhood. Plastered on every corner were memories he had created; this “mess”, was all he had ever known. And, despite many unfavourable names it’s been called by outsiders, for him, it was simply “home”.


word count: 175. This story Is in response to flash fiction for aspiring writers photo prompt challenge, hosted by Priceless Joy, where each week we are provided with an image and are to write a 75-175 word story surrounding it. Thank you for this week’s  photo @Grant-sud

Choices-

Choices-

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Speak now or forever hold your peace.

We’ve all heard that statement in movies and reality, spoken so many times and mostly in good humor. But what happens, when those few words decide to make an appearance in the movie of our life, but not in a comic role.

How do we decide, if speaking up when our ring is about to become another’s is better than holding our peace and silence- forever. How do we weigh it? Is there even a scale for that.

How do we decide if destroying another’s fairytale is worth saving our own. Does the end justify the means in this secenerio?

What If? God forbid, what if, we weigh the odds and conclude that forever is too long a time for us to hold our peace, we muster the courage, speak the words of our heart, and they fall only on the ears of its recipient but not his heart. Would it be worth it then?

Or should we stick to mama’s saying- if he really wants you, he’d come running back even if he’s about to say I do. And if he doesn’t, no one wants a coward anyway.
But what if we wait, and- he doesn’t?

On motherhood-

On motherhood-

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I remember when your tiny hands,
Found their home in mine,
With your body resting lightly,
In between my arms,
The rush each night for more milk,
And the tricks to quieten your cries,
I remember it like yesterday,
The day- you became mine.

And the first time you said mama,
When your feet first hit the floor,
Your first tooth and first tooth gap,
My Jaan I remember it all,
When you said you hated purple,
And we fought at the toy store,
How you’d make up, saying I love you,
My Jaan I remember it all.

But they say it is impossible,
Those nine months’ all that count,
They cannot call me a mother,
Since my womb was not your house.
But I’d give up the “mum” title,
To still have you in my life.
And as great of a job, is birthing,
so is raising a child.

Love & Poetry

Love & Poetry

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You tell me it’s all fiction,
the poetry you write,
That reality is far fetched,
From the land your muse resides,

The so called “love” you’d written,
Are words without much heart,
And I wonder if you think back,
To the ring on your finger.

You’d ask of my opinion,
And of course I’d say it’s great,
But I wonder, don’t you think our love,
Is worth words on a page.

So I read through every single page,
With pulse at a heightened pace,
And wonder will this be the day,
Our love inspires poetry.

Writer’s quote: Dorothy Parker

Writer’s quote: Dorothy Parker

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Hello and welcome to another writer’s Quote Wednesday where I share poems and quotes from some of my favourite poets. Today’s choice poet is Dorothy Parker and I am sharing the first poem of hers, I ever came across. It is titled “a very short song” and I can tell you, it lives up to its title. This poem also goes to show that poetry comes in different length and form.

Most of the poems I share on here are long, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a good short poem. I actually have a few favourites. But coming to today’s poem, it talks about heartbreak in its few lines- both ends of the rope. The character describes how it feels to break a heart and how it feels to be heartbroken and which, she believes is worse.

She writes the poems without much bitterness but rather with a realism and wit which reminds me of billy Collins’s poem- litany, I have no idea why. Here is the poem below and I hope you enjoy it. And thank you for taking part in last week’s question, it was interesting to read your take on what poetry means.

A very short song by Dorothy Parker

Once, when I was young and true,
Someone left me sad-
Broke my brittle heart in two;
And that is very bad.

Love is for unlucky folk,
Love is but a curse.
Once there was a heart I broke;
And that, I think, is worse.

I’ve used the above poem one too many a time as my whatsapp profile picture (don’t ask me why), so i’ld love to hear, do you have any other heartbreak poem. It doesn’t have to be a romantic relationship. Looking forward to getting to know a few more poems from you guys.

Would you?

Would you?

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If I poured my soul in verses,
And stamped it in hearts,
Sent it to the places,
You lived since we parted,
Would you look back
For a moment,
At the memories we had,
The good and the bad,
With my words in your mind.

Would you take down the ring,
From the shelf it’s been standing,
Take a look at the pictures,
Of the babies we are having,
Would you look down your hand,
With my memories beside you,
Gaze at your fingers,
Knowing something is missing.

If I told you I’m sorry,
And we miss you in our family,
Would you give us a chance,
Or would you still leave me hanging.
If I poured my soul in verses,
And stamped them in hearts,
To bring back our family,
Would those words suffice…

Flash Fiction: You had one job!

Flash Fiction: You had one job!

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Come in”, Leslie answered from behind her desk without lifting her gaze up.
The door was pushed softly and in walked Tony, in his usual black tee, jeans and bandanna.

“You sent for me boss?” Tony asked, a broad smile on his face.

She looked up, dropped her pen and folded her hands across the table.
“Yes I did.” Leslie replied curtly.

Does this look like an alternate universe to you“, she began, without necessarily waiting for an answer. “where gnomes go around chasing aliens for the entertainment of humans while we cheer them on”

The smile on Tony’s face faded.

“You only had one job Tony,” Leslie continued, “get me a cover picture that would surprise me and stun the readers. And you decided of all the excitement of this universe to supply me with the shot of an alien and a gnome!”

Tony knew the only thing he could do was apologise, which he did.
“Sorry?” She echoed his apology, “well sorry for yourself!” she replied, hurling the picture at him.


word count: 173. The above story is in response to Flash Fiction For Aspiring writer’s photo prompt challenge, for which I am almost late for, almost. Thank you very much @any1mark66 for this week’s photo.

Father… Dad

Father… Dad

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And maybe someday,
We’ll get to the point,
Where I won’t have to call
You father-
And the word “dad”
Would sound right.

And maybe someday,
All the screaming would
Become distant,
Like a memory locked,
In an abyss,
And I’ll gaze at you,
With new eyes.

And maybe,
Just maybe,
I’ld master the art of
Letting go,
Or shrug off the past,
And the words you’ve spoken,
Like the wind blows,
Pollen apart.

And maybe,
It’s just wishful thinking,
That you read this poem,
And realise,
An adult’s plea to make things
Right with a father…
Or maybe- you won’t?