Whispering Thoughts

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.

Linking with AlphabeThursday : Letter S

Linking with RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry #Challenge #63

Linking with RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry

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.

Tiny sailboat drifts, Fading into horizon, Wandering into unknowns. When the sun has set, All our labors turn to dust Like waves return to oceans. Linking with Friday Fictioneers

Linking with RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Challenge

Swaying golden wheat, lingering caress of breeze, whispers stay hidden.

Spectrum of questions, Inspire curiosity. Until deciphered. Steered noetically by search, Plethora follows in wake.

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!

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

Linking with RonovanWrites Weekly Haiku Challenge

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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.

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.