a free verse poem

waddling in the tundra
the penguin pauses
a hot-blooded heart
pounding in the frozen world

why, oh why,
a purposeful life
in this barren land

sliding, slinking, skidding
in the snow
it dares dream of
soaring in the sky

why, oh why,
the flightless wings
on this featherless body

legend speaks of a phoenix
rising from burnt ashes
but the cold does not burn

it bites

unrelenting in its grip
grounding the penguin
the passion the purpose
in this bleak barrenness

forgotten.wings. was originally published in A Cornered Gurl on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Pandemic Haibun Challenge

face mask: optional
glancing at unmasked colleagues —
who the hell is who?

I am unsure if anyone has this problem — the colleagues I knew now are separated into two groups: Before COVID (BC) and Post COVID (PC). Colleagues I knew BC I could not recognise with face masks and colleagues I knew PC I could not recognise without face masks. For someone who has facial recognition problems like a broken smartphone, this transition period has been challenging for me.

In response to Tre’s prompt:

Writers: A Challenge

identity was originally published in A Cornered Gurl on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

a free verse

write to remember
write to forget
write to celebrate
sorrows and swallowed
fears

write
the pegasus and
the unicorns
the hippocampus and
the tulpars to
future paradise or
prescient lands of
purgatory

write
the rollercoaster of
the highs and
the lows
the memories and
the experiences to
eternal end

remember -
write the ride

ride was originally published in A Cornered Gurl on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

just another free verse

natural beauty

when the world basks
in a brilliance
beyond belief
the blossom begins to
suspect simplicity is
snobbery

to sustain
or to shrivel
or to embrace the sin

blooming by abandoning
shining superficially
of spurious shades

artificial utopia
in natural world

wilt

the single blossom
faces a forked tongue

swaying in the breeze
breathing
shallowly

filter was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

i wish
to look my age
not younger
for i lose
experience
not older
for i lose
time
but a face
of my age
for i want
to live
in the moment
not chasing
what had passed
nor worrying
what will arrive

Portrait was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

So you have heard. Morning and Night wish to Meet.

You would think this is a simple Wish but you soon realise the simplest wishes are often the most difficult to fulfil. There are no more shortcuts and nothing more to simplify. You see Wall straight ahead to surmount with little runway to gain momentum.

How are they to meet? That should be your first question, for they run on different Times – Morning is too Early and Night is too Late. One cannot be earlier and the other cannot be later. With an ocean of Afternoon and a gulf of Evening in between, you cannot simply remove the two to let the two meet.

What are they to talk about? That should be your next question, for they possess different Perspectives. One brings Slumber while the other brings Awakening. You never use temporary death and permanent sleep as conversation starters.

But even in the dead of the Night, there is Nightlife. Morning cannot meet Night later but you see, They can meet earlier. And it is in that blurry line of Wee hours Meeting occurs in the presence of silent Stars.

Morning and Night are not that Different under the Same sky.

Or so you have heard.

one is enough

two familiar strangers was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

In a distant desolate desert stands a solitary tree.

Rain has visited not for months – temperature frequented in extremities instead and each time, becoming bolder in its deadly theft. Dead is the surrounding shrubbery, but dying the tree is not. Drooping not, bent neither, westward the tree leans, standing solid until beckons home it. Deep are the roots, thick is the trunk and dense are the leaves. Defies its eventuality the tree does.

THE TREE KNOWS ITS FATE.

It understands not the necessity behind the natural order of things. It is a mere tree in the grand scheme of things. The solitary tree was born in solitude to demonstrate the continuity of life. The solitary tree was born in solitude to die.

THE TREE ACCEPTS ITS FATE.

It does not accept the circumstances surrounding its fate. Sun beats down on it. So does Rain. And Hail. And Wind. The tree bows down to none. Moon sneers at it. So do Stars. And Sand. And Shadow. The tree stands tall to all.

THE TREE UNDERSTANDS ITS FATE.

It leans westward. Standing solid. Until home beckons it.

In a distant desolate desert, a solitary tree stands.

one is enough was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I dream a little dream — a secret dream of being a storyteller — to spread open a blank paper of possibilities and bring fantasy into reality. I wish to wander with ideas in the day and chase the words down at night; to give vibrant voices to silent thoughts; to create pleasure in mundane. I wish to poet the painful wisdom of maturity; to fiction fake worlds of memories; to weave the fabric of life with tapestries of experiences.

Let me live a life of a storyteller — translating thousands of lives with my pen and paper. No more weariness of a workhorse trudging through long murky road. Let me live a life of a storyteller — transcribing tragedies into comedies with happy endings. No more slavery of a worker ant circling the debris of what could not be whole again. Let me live a life of a storyteller — scripting merciful deaths to despair and despondency.

No more scavenging of a worker bee in the wild reporting to the beehive at the command of a whimsical queen bee. No more shod ox ploughing fields or shackled elephant performing in a circus. No. I shall be pleased with the precious lifeline of writing my time away.

So let me live a life of a storyteller.

dream of a storyteller was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.