Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Savoury, all the way



There is something special,
About a mother's cooking.
Could be measured scoops
From some secret recipe,
Or extra dollops
Of love and care
That make it ambrosial.
But no master chef,
Anywhere on this cosmos,
Can serve a platter better than hers.

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Sweet little wishlists


Saturday, September 26, 2015

S is for ... Senses

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Cumulonimbus

You barged in.
Like a violent storm.
And a raging chaos followed.
The walls of my heart faltered.
Bursts of lightning
Filtered through the cracks
Setting me ablaze.
Lulled by thunderous claps,
I found my peace.
Ravaged by the tempest,
Saved, too.

Thursday, September 10, 2015

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

My masked love

I fell for him; regal and impressive as he was.
Even lost my toddler-days devouring his comic-strips.
Phantom became the reason I wear thick eyeglasses.
He and transient surge of first crush.
Yet he chose Diana Palmer.
Masked men, I tell you!


Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Blaze of colors

A blaze of colors smeared across my heart.
The strokes of an unskilled hand,
uneven and splotchy.
The hues, all vibrant, vivacious.
The oranges mixing with reds
and purples and pinks,
with tiny little sequins littered here and there.
Wide eyed, I watch as this masterpiece
is splashed across the sunset skies
exclusively for me, every single night.
And then everything in the pallette blends,
swirling across the canvas.
The enchanting moments
fusing and merging
until I can't separate one from another.
Misty eyed, I watch
as the muted brilliance
slowly turns to a
subtle pink and mild, soft gold.



Linking with Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Thursday, September 3, 2015

P is for ... Piggybank

I shake my fading piggybank
and in the rattle of spare coins
my childhood jingles.
Penny by penny,
we built a happy account,
ringing with love and laughter.
The idea of collecting
scrapes of cheer
has long faded.
And piggybanks now run dry.
Occasionally, my nephews
spill the one I had
and happy moments roll out.
Amidst the singing of coins,
we share a tale or two.


Jenny Matlock

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

The secret atop the hill

The eerie halo, blanketing the sacred ruins atop the hill, is torn apart by fluorescent flickers on moonless nights. Faint, almost like an illusion. Imaginations conjure bygone romances to life; reality, wizened manuses of a priest. Temple-tales weave themselves into our eventides.