The girl who Lived-

The girl who Lived-

 

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And if I leave this world,
Tonight in my sleep;
Weep, but only a bit-
Then live out my dreams;
Share my words,
Exhale my stories;
Say to the world-
Here was a girl who lived.

She lived, she sought;
She spoke, she roared.

She dared to dream-
All odds, she beat;
She stood her feet,
Atop thick rifts.

And when the ground is holed,
My mother’s eyes are filled;
Hold her, tell her the story-
Of how her daughter lived.

originally written (2014)

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Another day-

Another day-

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The stars are out,
A bedazzled sight;
The men are in,
The doors are shut;
        A blast is heard,
        In the distant- loud;
Another death,
Its time to mourn.

The sun is out,
The clouds at bay;
The tree leaves sway,
In a sorrowful trance;
        The streets are filled,
        The corpses-lifted;
A scene too common,
The people mourn.

The moon is out,
No stars tonight;
The kids are shut,
There’s little sound;
         The women pray,
         The husbands await;
Will this be the day,
Their corpses are lifted.

The sun is out;
The clouds at bay,
Another day…

The above image was gotten fromTHE MIDDLE eastern magazine

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Writer’s Quote: Awareness

Writer’s Quote: Awareness

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October is a month which helps to spread the awareness of so many important causes including, Domestic Violence, World Mental health day, Girl child day and the topic of this week’s Writer’s Quote/Poem Wednesday– Breast cancer awareness.

I found an old poetry book of mine called “Nineteen years in diapause“. I bought this book during my first year of medical school and as it was a time when I was in my early phase of poetry, I didn’t fully appreciate the beauty and gems it contained within its poems.

Nevertheless, there was one poem which stuck to me. And as I went through the book again yesterday, I came across the poem once more and knew I had to share it.

Annals of the closet by Katie Queen

No one is to disrupt mommy
when she is working,
she likes her space silent.

Her stethoscope is not a toy
and neither is our new greedy baby:
gurgling and mewing

in the room down the hall.
My room. My lavender coloured room,
a “babies room, not for big girls.”

Looking for mommy,
I found a wig
as she must have found the lump,

lurking in the deep recesses
of her lush closet,
hidden in a bag,

unearthed by curiosities
of nimble fingers’
exploratory cravings.

“For when i’m old and lose my hair”
she said, without hesitation,
Plopping the carbon copy in my head.

After that, there was no need to wonder
anymore. Not even
after I saw the scar-

a pink patch
of matted stretched skin
nestled neatly

between clavicle
and nipple-
something the baby must have seen,

or felt,
or licked,
did I question her.

 

The Last Time-

The Last Time-

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Was “I love you” the last you said to them,
Was “I hate you” the last you uttered,
Did you give them a hug with compassion,
Did your face reveal clear discontent.

Did you thank them for all they’d been doing,
Did you grumble for the chores they ordered,
Did you think they were harsh and unloving,
Did you think they were raising you right.

I love you wasn’t the last word I’d spoken,
I didn’t hug them when they walked out the door,
And I waited from dusk until morning,
It was too late- they never returned.

Today, is all that we are sure of,
Tomorrow is just a probability,
Gratitude shouldn’t wait another hour,
For tomorrow- who knows if we’ll be.

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Flash Fiction: The Social contract

Flash Fiction: The Social contract

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I opened the notification on my phone to see a huge brown coffee mug with various calligraphic inscriptions adorning it. Sitting on top of the mug was a rose-colored round lensed sunshades.

I didn’t need to see the name of the sender, it had to be my best friend Sadie. Under the picture was a text which read- “I got these as Maud’s birthday gift. Cool huh?” Maud was Sadie’s sister.

I paused for a moment. Sadie loved coffee, Maud hated it; Sadie adored sunshades, Maud couldn’t wear it because her eyesight was myopic. So why would Sadie buy that for Maud?

Then it clicked. They were sisters, they were used to sharing things, Sadie was killing two birds with one stone. She’d conform to the social contract of gift giving, by getting her sister Maud, what she knew would eventually come back to her. 

I didn’t know if I should admire my best friend’s smartness or fear for my own upcoming birthday gift. 


word count: 164. This story is in response to flash fiction for aspiring writers photo prompt challenge, hosted by Priceless Joy. Thank you for this week’s picture @shivamt25

Is there any poetry lover here who noticed the “Sadie and Maud” reference? 😁

Flash Fiction: Life at 8

Flash Fiction: Life at 8

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Uncle Shankar was Ma’s older brother but I often wondered if maybe one of them was adopted. They couldn’t possibly be genetically related. Uncle was as jovial as Ma was prim, he smiled as often as Ma frowned, he was slender in build while Ma was, well, thick.

We moved in with him and grandma after Dad passed away. I was eight. Every morning, when I went out to go to school, I’d find Uncle on his chair outside beside the flowers. His face would light up when he saw me; it appeared as if the sun shone out of it.

Good morning old lady“, he’d greet me and set me a pun question which, if I answered correctly, would earn me a chocolate. I rarely got that chocolate.

But I was eight and life, couldn’t have been better.


word count: 138. This story is in response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring writers photo promot challenge hosted by priceless joy. Thank you very much for this week’s photo  @shivamt25

You don’t remember-

You don’t remember-

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He’s just a teen,
Bound to get his back up,
At every little thing-
Don’t you remember it,

Defensive
Without an offence
Attack, eager to depict-
I’m an adult now,
alternating between
rebellion and obedience,
Don’t you remember it,

Enthralled,
By the illusion of teens
In cliques,
Conforming to their
status quo,
At the risk of all
You’ve been raised to be;
Don’t you remember it,

When all you needed,
Instead of a hand,
On your body,
Violently sweeping across,
Were words.
Simply words.

But you don’t remember it.
As your hands,
Violently,
Swipe across his body.
While the words he yearn
He needs to hear-
Silent.
You’ve forgotten,
What it means to be-
A teen.

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Writer’s Quote: Dear Reader

Writer’s Quote: Dear Reader

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Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday, where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors.

Today’s poem talks about taking care of a patient with Alzheimers, from the point of view of the nurse. I love the fact that the writer, Rita Mae Reese, left the identity of the patient and the carer genderless. Leaving it up to our creative minds to fill in the blanks.

This poem, “Dear Reader“, is not a poem one reads and immediately whips out the pen and notebook because of its poetic inspiration. No, it’s one of those reads which strike a chord in the heart. For lack of better wording, it’s what I like to call “beautiful and heartwarming”, and reading it, left me wanting more of it. Below is the poem:

Dear Reader by Rita Mae Reese
You have forgotten it all.
You have forgotten your name,
where you lived, who you
loved, why.
I am simply
your nurse, terse and unlovely
I point to things
and remind you what they are:
chair, book, daughter, soup.

And when we are alone
I tell you what lies
in each direction: This way
is death, and this way, after
a longer walk, is death,
and that way is death but you
won’t see it
until it is right
in front of you.

                Once after
your niece had been to visit you
and I said something about
how you must love her
or she must love you
or something useless like that,
you gripped my forearm
in your terrible swift hand
and said, she is
everything
—you gave

me a shake—everything
to me.

                   And then you fell
back into the well. Deep
in the well of everything. And I
stand at the edge and call:
                      chair, book, daughter, soup. 

If you could describe this poem in two words, what would they be? 

Flash Fiction: red-handed

Flash Fiction: red-handed

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Is that what I think it is”, was the first statement which came out of mama’s mouth the minute she stepped into the house. Her gaze went directly to the cup standing in the middle of the living room. 

The horror on our faces was impossible to hide. We didn’t know she was coming back so soon, we didn’t have time to formulate any theories. Heck, we didn’t even think she would be back early enough to see it.

I looked to Tracy and Brianna and they glared back at me. Oh crap!

“Well“, she was clearly waiting for an answer as she motioned towards us three.
I laughed nervously and the words that came out of my mouth were,
At least, it’s not human poop.”

It was too late to take it back; Brianna gasped, Tracy looked like she needed to puke. I glanced at my mum again, and the look on her face told me one thing- Lord help me!


word count: 162 words. The above story is in response to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers photo prompt challenge, hosted by Priceless Joy, where each week we are provided with a photo and are to write a 75-175 word story on it. Thank you very much for this week’s photo @artycaptures.wordpress.com

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Mrs Latashka-

Mrs Latashka-

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Mrs Latashka had no money,
Bore 5 girls with her husband Monty;
Sarah was a baby when he went running,
To another woman; says neighbourhood gossip.

Mrs Latashka toiled night and morning,
All kind of jobs, to earn some money;
Never took charity, though neighbors offered,
She trudged through life owning no one nothing.

Mrs Latashka was one of her kind,
Bore 5 girls, whom most saw as burdens;
Ignored all advice- to stop the toiling,
And earn, by getting all 5 girls married.

Mrs Latashka grew old not weary,
Little Sarah had gone off to Uni,
Her joints now weak from all the toiling,
Her face aglow for, she was reaping.

Mrs Latashka had clothed all children,
With education and self dignity,
She lay- her last few breaths escaping,
With the satisfaction, it was all worth it.

It’s been a while I wrote a ballad, thought I’d write one today.
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