Writer’s Quote: Ella wheeler Wilcox

Writer’s Quote: Ella wheeler Wilcox


I found the above quote while scrolling through my twitter feed and had to share it. Why? Because the atrocities going on in this world are so much that we may sometimes forget there is kindness in this world,

Because, young girls are dying and children are dying. Because, the current generation which are the future are grieving; they’re mourning; their innocence dimming as they see murder  happening around them everyday, it may as well be classified as normal. Because the upcoming generation, and not just those growing up in Syria or Iran or Kashmir, but all around the world- in Nigeria, in Turkey, in Bangladesh, in Palestine, in the United Kingdom, in the states, deserve to have a sky devoid of air strikes, a crowd devoid of bomb blast. They deserve to have peace.

I hope to convey my emotions by sharing the following poem by Ella wheeler Wilcox as my writer’s quote/poem Wednesday submission. I may not be in the North-Eastern part of Nigeria where the boko-haram insurgency has crippled their inhabitants, I may not be in Syria and Palestine where their lives are under constant terror and little seems to be done about it, I may not be in the United Kingdom where a coward of person takes the lives of innocent citizens. But in the words of Ella Wheeler, I echo your cries and I echo your sorrows.

The little white hearse by Ella wheeler Wilcox

Somebody’s baby was buried to-day–
The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back,
And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay
As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way,
And a shadow seemed drawn o’er the sun’s golden track.

Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest,
White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold,
And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast,
And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed
With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold.

Somebody saw it go out of her sight,
Under the coffin lid–out through the door;
Somebody finds only darkness and blight
All through the glory of summer-sun light;
Somebody’s baby will waken no more.

Somebody’s sorrow is making me weep:
I know not her name, but I echo her cry,
For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep,
The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep
In the little white hearse that went rumbling by.

I know not her name, but her sorrow I know;
While I paused on the crossing I lived it once more,
And back to my heart surged that river of woe
That but in the breast of a mother can flow;
For the little white hearse has been, too, at my door.

Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/the-little-white-hearse-by-ella-wheeler-wilcox

Flash Fiction: In the moment

Flash Fiction: In the moment


D.I Lucy was led through a snow-covered narrow pathway which led to the penthouse’s door. Both sides were bordered by a variety of flowers consisting of chrysanthemums, oleanders; those were the only two she could identify under the blanket of ice which formed thorny cushions on the plants.

One in particular caught her gaze. Slowing her pace, she tried to place the flower in her mind. What was it called again?

It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
D.I Lucy’s thoughts were interrupted by her guide who wasn’t much of a talker, which suited Lucy just fine.
“I noticed you staring at that flower a little longer“.

D.I Lucy managed a weak smile in return as they arrived the house door, making a mental note to check out the guide later on- she was observant. D.I Lucy made three sharp knocks on the door, bracing herself for the worst part of her job- breaking bad news.

Word count: 154 words. This story is in response to Flash Fiction for aspiring writers photo prompt challenge where each week we are given a picture and are to write a 75-175 word story surrounding it. Thank you very much @loniangraphics for this week’s photo.

J- John McCrae

J- John McCrae


Hello to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday, in continuation with the a-z challenge I am currently undertaking, today’s poet’s name begins with the letter J, and he is someone some of you might be familiar with- john McCrae. The poem for today is called “in Flanders fields’ and it is about the First World War. It was written after the death of the author’s friend.

The first stanza of the poem talks about the dead lying in Flanders fields, and how the sounds of blazing guns have drowned the noises of the flies. The second stanza goes on to the describe the dead, who have lived and loved, now lain in Flanders field. The remarkable and different thing about this poem, for me, is the third stanza. Here, the author actually tells his mates to carry on with the war for the sake of the fallen, otherwise those dead would not rest in peace. This is a great contrast from several poets, who talk about the futility of war. Below is the poem, and feel free to share your thoughts on it.

In Flanders fields by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

The girl with the black veil-

The girl with the black veil-


Yes she will smile and,
Yes she’ll say thank you;
But only when needed,
And that’s all she uttered.

Yes she would walk and,
Go into classrooms;
But thats all she went to,
And only when needed,

She walked with her head high,
Her blue eyes looked downcast;
A black veil her trademark,
We named her dark widow.

But no one, yes no one
Even once tried to get her,
To open the world, we all
Knew she held within her.

Her frail body floated,
Under layers of clothing,
The nickname travelled fast
But she walked on unbothered,

Until the day she didn’t,
The girl with the black veil,
The news came as a shock,
Our dark widow had passed on.

We found out the reason,
She hid behind a black veil,
Leukaemia- they called it,
Her cells were killing her.

We prayed for Azmeena,
We wept for her departure,
She fought all alone,
And we did nothing to help her.

This is something I wrote as a free-write literally now, Just to keep the muse going. If you are not a fan of rhyming, feel free to ignore this. 🙂

the above image Is courtesy of  Emaho magazine.com

Day 3: I stand with them-

Day 3: I stand with them-


Let your voice be heard above the cries of
those living in the midst of violence.
The sight of blood- a daily occurrence,
In grief and sadness their lives are engulfed.

A moment of thought for our fellow men,
Our Sisters, mothers who are war besieged,
Unaware of when they’ll get their next meal,
Their world is in chaos- I stand with them.

Let your voice be heard- for the ones whose land,
Once filled with greeneries of different kinds
Now turned, a graveyard- a horrendous sight
Of bodies in layers, a burial ground.

So, I stand with the ones whose blood is shed,
Mercilessly and their cries go unheard.

Day 4: A sonnet. Oh my, I didn’t know writing a sonnet could be so hard, what with the rhyming and the long syllables, but then again, I am glad I did it. This post is in response to DecemberPoetryChallenge.

the above image is courtesy of Third force news.org.uk

On Grief-

On Grief-


I would tell you loss gets easy,
But I’m sure you’ve felt that pain,
An aching dull sensation,
In the middle of your chest;
Hands tremble uncontrollably,
With the phone gripped to your ear;
Sorry we couldn’t save her,
Is the last statement you hear.

The world spins all around you,
But the truth stares in your face;
A soul you loved, a part of you,
Gone from this universe;
To tell you loss gets easy then,
Wouldn’t take away your pain;
So weep my love- unburden
Grieve if it keeps you sane.

The above Image is courtesy of Brokengypsy.tumblr.com

Without him-

Without him-


With him,
Life held meaning
With him,
Each day was a memory in the making
Life seems dreary;
I’ve got to sail through the storms.

With him,
Joy was abound
With him,
Home was a person not place
Home’s just four walled;
I’ve got to put on a strong face.

With him,
I was complete
There’s a bullet hole in my heart
I’ve got to keep living;
With him,
I learnt dark will give way to light
Always… Eventually.

The above image is courtesy of Pinterest

When love leaves-

When love leaves-

Ŵhen love leaves, 

Silence becomes defeaning,

You see things, all too clearly

That happy couple holding hands,

 It takes you back- back- to a time when 

Sweet words and morning jokes were a norm

When fights didn’t mean the end but, 

One of those things that happen.

Until, the unannounced 

Arrives- death 

And love has to leave. 

I’d like to turn this into a longer poem, but it’s late at night and I’m drinking tea, thinking of sleep and dreading another morning class tomorrow. 🙂

The Girl on The Street

The Girl on The Street


It came as a curveball,
The news that they met;
A girl on their street,
Had succumbed to death;
But I thought she was happy,
They chorused all day;
And saw flashbacks of her,
With burgers and a grin;
But the truth of the darkness,
Which hovered her being,
Was placed on the status,
Of her various dps;
It was written in the poems,
Which she shared with her friends,
Who described it, “beautiful”,
And ignored its depth;
It was displayed in the redness
Of her eyes after meals,
When she came out of restrooms,
Appearing fatigued.
It was drawn on collarbones,
Poking through her skin,
And the clothes she resized,
For the waists were too big.

It came as a curveball-
News, The illness took her;
Her weight was too downscale,
She couldn’t survive;
But I thought she was happy
Was all they could say,
But for the girl on the street,
It was too late.

On Loss-

On Loss-


There is no preparation, no test; neither assignment nor hint to prepare us for certain things in this world. We see tales of tragedies and its almost always someone else’s family, no one expects its going to be theirs. No one prepares for that. And then it happens.
The dreaded phone call which brings our carefully crafted glass house of security, crashing with one single statement- “I’m sorry”.

Sorry. And you wonder what they are sorry for. Sorry for the fact they couldn’t save “her”, sorry that it was too late, sorry there’s little they they can do to appease your pain, sorry that they have to be the bringer of bad news, or simply sorry for the departure of another beautiful soul from the world.

There is no preparation, no practice… In that Moment, you either walk across the broken shards feeling the loss with every stinging sensation or, you stare unmoving, long and hard at the broken pieces. Nothing can prepare you for that split second reaction. You either grieve or you don’t…

The above image is courtesy of: Campus health.unc