The heart, scrunched
The eyes, drip
The chains, rattle
Naked skins, scrape
Commondants and captives, shriek
The chimney, sizzle…
Another day, Auschwitz
Linked to dVerse. Bjorn is hosting with a call for poems using onomatopeia (I know drip and scrape aren’t onomatopoeia, apologies)
Forsaken, the reasoning
Lionised, rambling words
Foreboding, cheering fanatics
Lie their utmost.
Lie yourself silly,
Tell the lie and honor the devil…
As the potentate declare,
“Cowards lie many times before they rest”..
Linked to dVerse Poetics. Jilly is hosting with the theme of giving twisted adages.
It’s not unusual to find solace in the country side, owing to the silence that sweeps the lands. But in urban areas, the silence is, and will remain a blessing that’s rarely showered.
There is also an eerie silence that dwell the urban landscape, and the hearts of its inhabitants. It hits you, among all the cacophonous unsolicited voices, voices that express concern, happiness, disappointment, a plethora of emotions of their instigators.
It was during those experiences that I wrote this Haiku.
The lonely heavens
Being denuded of stars
Written for dverse where Victoria C. Slotto is hosting with the theme of Koorogi, The Japanese Kigo for Cricket
I wrote and posted this Haiku previously . Seeing the Koorogi theme, I’m reposting the same. Apologies (for those who consider such actions as spamming or being uncreative).
The shatter, unheard
The torment, concealed
The tears, witheld
The smile, fabricated
A life, faked
The silence often…veridical.
Linked to dVerse Poetics. Jilly is hosting with the theme of what is unseen.
So remaining; or I should put it more bluntly maintaining your anonymity online is a difficult thing. And I’m not talking about the technical part of it. The log in cum location and data sharing that comes with signing the T&Cs of online sites, is unavoidable. But what’s more hard is to roll out information that may expose you, with your identity, to the outside world.
It’s especially hard if you have friends online. As for example, Sensei and Jim are among two of my friends here on the WordPress community. (Their are others too, but including Sandi, more and less we count as family as we started together)
So it’s no surprise when out of the blue I drop some information that well tells a little more about me. And in all fairness, it peak the interest of my fellow community members. Thus remaining anonymous becomes more harder, and this is at a time when pace of my blogging is lacklustre, and not at its best.
So how to tell about myself without removing the curtains covering my identity. Well taking a cue out of of my pal Jim, here is a song telling a little bit about my life.
P. S. Not all of its true. (Psss… It is, except the 2003 part, you’ll understand.)
Written for Sensei’s one word prompt
A strange and familiar feeling had gripped Lyon heart. He encountered it before, on his solus escapades, but never in a clique.
He glanced at Jane. She was trembling. Mark was holding her hand, yet she was shaking. He took her hand, and squeezed it tightly. When Jane glanced back, he nodded.
All three were walking abreast towards the harbour, when Lyon abruptly stopped and asked, “Why are we hear again”? Jane and Mark looked equally bewildered.
Alas, the softening of their brains, which prompted them, became an impediment in finishing their journey. Their suicide pact, now jilted, before the finishing line.
Written for Rachel Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers prompt. Picture credit: Ted Strutz.
The dried eyes, the dark circles, another night, another day, yet the restlessness remains. The day reminding him of the night, the night which like the earlier ones, was marked with her absence.
The absence which was clearly felt. Oh! How much has he lost, since the day she disappeared? How he sulked, how he occasionally became tense, how he cried, how he became delusional.
But she isn’t returning. And although he finds what he terms as ‘alternatives’, using money, none satisfied him, like she did.
Now the sun has risen, the pills have failed, his sleep like before, in absentia.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit:Dale Rogerson