My next poem:I still can recallThe glorious times of oldWhen summers weren't scorchingAnd winters barely cold.When spring dawned sprightly,And monsoon marched mighty,When rains rained rapture,In the hearts of the carefree.When I could still readBooks boundless in number,When I could write poemsWith all the skill I'd muster.When drowning in delightsOf a transient childhoodIgnited not ire, but …
Month: October 2022
Soup
My next haibun:Although I mostly prefer writing poetry, when time and muse have permitted, I've also dabbled in the delightful art of story writing. It can be quite challenging, but as is the case with poems, if you've a well-cooked plot, it doesn't take much to prepare a story. I like to think of it …
Does it Ring a Bell?
My next quadrille:Do they ring a bell,The battles that were,Bloody clashes between countries,That delivered unimaginable despair?Do they ring a bell,The conflicts that are,Terrible tensions that preserveThe uncertainity of war?The price of peace-Never once free-Is enormous indeed. -The Forgers of FantasyThis has been penned for the DVerse quadrille prompt, where poets were asked to pen quadrilles …
Sleep, Never to Wake
A poem:Sleep, never to wakeIn a night devoid of moon,Endless stretch of black,And timeless, tenebrous gloom...Sleep, never to wakeImmured in this wicked world,Where corruptions reigns,And malign malefice unfurls.Sleep, never to wakeSuffering in solitude,Pulverized by pain,With nobody by your side...Sleep, never to wakeTo live a life you regret,I hope, at long lastYour agony, you forget. -The …
Clusters
My next set of wayras:Hassled by homework,Combating cryptic numbers,Computing endless products,Thinking tirelessly,Writing perpetual pages.Seven thirty saysThe ever-so candid clock,Familiar sounds echo,A swishing noise I hark,Followed by a thunderous roar*.I remain seated,Hands working furiously,Mind timelessly toiling,Although plagued by fearOf missing out on a night's game.Decoding details,Imbibing information,Tired, I wistfully watchStories of friends feasting**And reveling in restaurants.Burning …
The Leaves are Withering
A poem:The leaves are withering,They look pale and brown,They lie lifeless figures,Scattered, at sundown.Their branches quietly mournThe loss of their children,Desolate pieces of woodOld and abandoned.The trees seem quite strange,By day, they appear listless,But come dusk, become frightened,Fearing the darkness.The forests may seem green,For in silence, they lose life,Their littered paths bespeakThe feared advance of …
The Forgers of Fantasy 