Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Remember the time

For the dVerse Poets challenge – Gender Bender. Kelly Letky set us the challenge to write a poem from the point of view of the opposite sex. Very difficult, I just found :)


There is grass growing
on your grave, little one.

Remember the time
when you had walked
on the grass and found
a wriggling worm. You
had run to me afraid and
I had lifted you in the air
and you had declared
you could touch the stars.
I don’t notice the stars anymore.

The tree beside your grave
is shedding leaves, little one.

Remember the times
when you had lain on
my chest, quiet and gently
breathing, and said it felt
like a tree. My arms
the branches. I suppose
you meant strong
and stable and rooted.
You had never seen an uprooted tree.

There are daisies
on your headstone, little one.

Remember the time
your mother and you
had made daisy chains
in the meadow not noticing
the birds that had snacked
on our picnic lunch.
How the two of you had
giggled until my belly
was full of your laughter.
She has not smiled in a long time. 


In my family, my father was the gentle one, pouring his gentle affection on me unconditionally. Of course, the scenario described above didn’t happen in my case, but I can imagine my father would have been devastated, I being the only daughter and the apple of his eye.


Sunday, September 27, 2015

Sensuous Sundays - Wildflowers

Wildflowers - haiku

raindrops on my face,
pinpricks of cool. Like tiny
desert wildflowers


Saturday, September 26, 2015

Death poems

On dVerse Poets Pub Gayle sets the challenge :  To write in haiku or tanka style to the theme of Jisei (Japanese death poems).

Gayle also says, "In ancient Japanese, Chinese and Korean cultures, a practice was used at the time of death to capture the last words spoken. This practice was called jisei (in Japan) or death poem and is the “farewell poem to life.” Jisei was written by monks, samurai, the literate and poets of these cultures. One of the earliest recorded jisei dates to 686 C.E. (Common Era) or in Christian terms, B.C. (before Christ) with the death of Prince Otsu who was the son of Emperor Temmu of Japan."

Japanese death poems - tanka


I hear the sea sing
in my veins, of homecoming.
Save your salty tears

for life and its sorry tales,
not me. I am going home.


This vain, heavy shell
I no longer need, fading
softly like daylight

surrenders to night, sighing
soft promises of return.


This shell will return
to its womb. My sinews will
turn into roots, limbs

into tree-trunks. And my song
will trill out from the tree tops.


Soon, I will be rain,
falling on seeds, springing them
into life. Lusty,

fecund, virile, alive. Death
is a mere wisp of a veil.


Friday, September 25, 2015


(100 word flash fiction)

Family gone, career over, there was nothing to live for.

And so, she stood at the bridge, the portal between this life and the next. Above her, dark clouds rolled. The sky was already in mourning.

The office farewell gift, a brooch the colour of sunrise, felt heavy in her hand. As though pinning her down, inexorably, to the fabric of life.

She felt a tug on her sleeve. A teenage girl in tatters. A baby on her hip. Begging.

Inside her heart, gears shifted and moved. A sunbeam shot through the clouds.

“Would you like a meal? A home?”


Friday Fictioneers flash fiction for the photo prompt below -

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

The power of awe - tanka

What's a poem but
the shell around the heart being
split open by awe

beauty comes out of hiding
and love does a little dance


Sunday, September 20, 2015

Sensuous Sundays - Chocolate

Chocolate – haiku

silken smooth melting
taste buds in sweet drunken swoon
dark ambrosia


Friday, September 18, 2015

The thief

(100 word flash fiction)

He pushed open the rusty gate and walked calmly to the crumbling house.

He planned to overpower her when she opened the door, force her to open the safe and decamp with the loot.

But, the door was open. She was lying on the floor. Her breaths long and laboured. Each one like it was the last.

Should he run, or call for help?

‘Who are you?” asked the emergency call operator.

The woman in an old photo on the wall looked just like the one in a photo he had carried in his wallet for 20 years.

“Her son.”


For Friday Fictioneers photo prompt below -

PHOTO PROMPT © David Stewart

photo prompt © David Stewart

Thursday, September 17, 2015


Glenn Colquhoun GP and poet on 'How do writing and medicine fit together?'

"Mainly they complement each other. Sometimes a poem is about trying to touch your hand as lightly as possible on the fabric of the universe. Medicine is the same."

Amen to that!

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

An Old Woman

by Arun Kolatkar

An old woman grabs
hold of your sleeve
and tags along.

She wants a fifty paise coin.
She says she will take you
to the horseshoe shrine.

You’ve seen it already.
She hobbles along anyway
and tightens her grip on your shirt.

She won’t let you go.
You know how old women are.
They stick to you like a burr.

You turn around and face her
with an air of finality.
You want to end the farce.

When you hear her say,
‘What else can an old woman do
on hills as wretched as these?’

You look right at the sky.
Clear through the bullet holes
she has for her eyes.

And as you look on
the cracks that begin around her eyes
spread beyond her skin.

And the hills crack.
And the temples crack.
And the sky falls

with a plateglass clatter
around the shatter proof crone
who stands alone.

And you are reduced
to so much small change
in her hand.


Sunday, September 13, 2015

Sensuous Sundays - Shower

Shower - haiku

the shower hisses
water kisses turn into
a liquid embrace


Saturday, September 12, 2015

Dawn breaking

She looked at herself in the mirror
and shimmied a little, smiling at her
wan face, saying, “you look lovely!”
As though in apology to her own
reflection that didn’t smile back.
But replied in her head, “you liar!”
Her heart dropped into her belly,
that sea of tremulousness. “I love you,”
she cried in desperate defiance.

“You sentimental fool!” Old, hazy
voices rose from forgotten graves.
“You are not real.” She railed at
their fuzzy persistence. “Who do
you think you are?” Old shame
surfaced like dirty foam. “You’re
lies I believed for far too long.”
“Don’t delude yourself.” “I am
truth. I am light. I am pure love.”

She leaned toward her reflection
blurred through the tears, kissed
it. Her lover, her eternal friend.
It glowed and grew. It smiled back
through the misty glass. The sun
rose from the sea of grey, lifted
her heart, gave it wings. Light
pulsated through her veins, “Hello
Sunshine!” Her eyes twinkled back.


dVerse Poets Pub hosted by Victoria this week asks us to write a poem in conversation style.

Friday, September 11, 2015

In continuum

(100 word flash fiction)

She ran her finger down the book’s spine.  It was coarse and unyielding like bark.

‘This was once a tree.’ She thought, bemused. ‘Its cells then rearranged into a different form to serve a different purpose.’

She looked around the room lined with books in shelves. She was in a jungle here. Except, it was not sap that was flowing but rivers of stories.

‘A house it could have been, sheltering people. Or a boat, gliding over the endless rivers. Living, serving, even after death.’

She pulled the form towards her and signed it, donating all her organs after death.


It’s that day of the week again when I check out the Friday Fictioneers page hosted by the lovely Rochelle and get a high by writing a short story based on the photo prompt which this week is –

PHOTO PROMPT - © Jennifer Pendergast

PHOTO PROMPT – © Jennifer Pendergast

Sunday, September 06, 2015

Sensuous Sundays - A memory

A memory stirs. Honey
light and liquid days, in veins
sunshine wine spilling on to
pages as poems.

Dodoitsu  form (7-7-7-5 syllable structure)

Friday, September 04, 2015

The time to leave

(100 word flash fiction)

She gazed up from the asphalt at the open window from which she had just been thrown, desperately willing his face not to appear.

She couldn’t move. A chill was moving up from her legs. Her vision was starting to fade as blood seeped into her eyes.

She heard footsteps. Furtive ones. Then, his voice in her ear, a menacing whisper, “You don’t get to decide when to leave. I do.”

His smell, once loved, now loathed, filled her nostrils, gushed into her lungs sucking the breath out of her.

That’s when she remembered the gun strapped to her waist.


A bit too graphic and literal but my muse won’t give me anything else today.

Friday Fictioneers flash fiction for the photo prompt -

Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Thursday, September 03, 2015

What does the watchman see?

Watcher – haiku

a coiled tense spring
the cat watches its victim
eat its last meal


Watchman – haiku

you watch over me
like a lighthouse, always there
forever shining


Watchkeeper – tanka

third watch of the night
the clock stops still in mid gong
Death has come calling

“your time is up” gaily says
that relentless watch keeper


For DVerse Poets prompt What does the watchman see?