Whispering Thoughts

Small strides on a rough path strewn with fireflies. Small steps that lead to beautiful roads, over the time. Small short steps that brought us this far. Baby paced, each day, we walk with a hope that we will reach the destination, that alluring terminus which keeps us awake most nights. Small baby steps each single day praying all the while that we walk in the right direction, striving to carve our niche, howsoever small, in this majestic expanse. Walking slowly underneath the umbrellas of very many blessings feeling the bliss, living the moment. Tiptoeing, lest the harmony is disrupted. PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson Linking with Friday Fictioneers

Eventide. The waves crashing at shores. The roar of hungry ocean, consuming the remains of the day greedily. The ferries anchored, owners back to their nests. Just like the sea-gulls huddling in colonies. The air-balloon descending, hysteria lowering each minute. You pull me close and hug me tight. Melancholically. Cockcrow. The ocean exhales energy. Cold waves wash everything afresh, dissolving the litter of yesterday. Sea-gulls squawk in distance readying for the flight. Ferries rock gently, setting momentum for the day. A hot air-balloon rises, hysteria growing each minute. You hug me tight as you leave for work. A buoyant hug. Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 word challenge : wash Linking with Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers - 183rd

It was early. Even for day-break. But since you had to leave for a business trip, we woke up way before dawn. I headed straight to the kitchen. Luke warm water with generous dollop of honey. Your morning ritual. Springs you right in action. You skipped the tea today. With deft hands, sure and confident, you readied yourself. Had a silent scanty breakfast and left. I looked around at the empty room, and breathed your presence. In the registers you worked late. In the uncapped pan you wrote with. In the hand towel carelessly hung at the bed-head. But mostly in the creases of the bedsheet. I traced the contours, the remnants of the night and I guess I blushed. Then without setting them straight, I lied down on the unmade bed and embraced the wrinkles. And it was like you never left.

With the heart in charge, we descend deep. Labyrinth. All reason bent since. Linking with  RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #219 CHARGE&Reason

Hoarding up, stacking up the moments in a cask sealed with a Harrison nine-lever lock, safeguarding and saving them for an opportune moment. But what if that moment never arrives? What if all that we are given is here and now? When will we open the casket? Will the treasures inside stay? Or will they wither and wilt? The remnants decaying and rotting; Ruins of the days gone past mocking us for the right time. “Now” is the miracle. “Now” is the secret. “Now” is all that you are given. So why hoard? Why save for an un-guaranteed “then”? Hear! Linking wihh Thin Spiral Notebook :100 word challenge : save

Today, my good old Nescafe shaker died. It was just 16. Yes. My 16 year old shaker died today. From fatal injuries. A crack at bottom, and a crack in lid. Both ill-fated. Ah! If only, the concept of bandage worked for shakers. May be not all shakers. But for this one at least. I would have bandaged and nursed its wounds. Antiseptics too lest some infection developed. Proteins for recovery. Just like it made one for me. Every morning. I still remember the day ma gave it to me. For the sheer versatility it offered. Sweetened shakes. Spiced buttermilk (Punjabi style). Lemonades. Young in taste. Motherly in serving. And I had evolved before it. It had taught me to swirl. To that “nescafe shake shake shake, I wanna make make make” It had born my change of tastes too. Silently. Served me sincerely. Till yesterday. And then it fell. And breathed its last. It is survived only by the stirrer attachment. Rest in peace, my good old friend. It is from you that...

The flute plays. The melody strums. The cosmos resonates. The ecosystem rejoices. The vibrations stir. The souls move. Even the stones. Out of sheer love. The flute plays. The flautist smiles. A dazzling, radiant smile. On a dazzling, radiant face. Smug. Satisfied. The pawns are dancing. His will. His way. Such is the control of love. The flute plays. That holed hollow bamboo. Blessed by His touch. And the rhythm sustains the universe. Fast here. Slow there. High now. Low again. The flute plays. My faith stays. Sincere. Sure. Strong.. The flute plays. The silence speaks. Loud and clear. Om. Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : The 100 word challenge: control