Whispering Thoughts

The rivulet flows above the hard rocks, meandering, snaking through the beaten tracks and trails scraping them slowly, turning stone to sand with tenacity, persistence, sheer will. Just like love flowing through the skin mingling into arteries, veins and capillaries, seeping in to the heart, and gradually penetrating, soaking the soul through and through. Impervious? There is no such thing. The swirls, the twirls, they leave their marks, folds and wrinkles. The contours on surface, the chemistry in depths, fuse together, blend, interblend, sedately, unhurriedly permeate every single pore, saturate the very being. The rivulet flows, just like love. Linking with Weekend Writing Prompt #98 : Impervious

I sit by the window, relishing the soothing spring and spin some words, delicate, sweet, and a tad crunchy. I engrave my odes on paper like involved intricate carvings. And then I persuade the fragrant young gusts to carry my scribbles in their folds and pleats for delivering to you. One notelet bears my love for you, the other, my prayers, my fervent, ardent wishes. And I earnestly hope that when at leisure you’ll read my letters, a rosy blush, a shy smile will grace your sober lips at the sheer absurdity of this gift sent by a crazy me.

As the main gate creaked, eight eyes looked up in unison, curious, probing and expecting. Two hungry calves, their mother and (perhaps) grandmother, basking in the morning sun, looked up, anticipating breakfast. Vitamin – D did little to silent rambling stomachs. Thankfully, the garbage collector, sensing their hunger, dumped a paper bag near them, the rotting fruit spilling over on the dusty road. The young bovines rushed. Their mother followed suit, while the eldest stood, satisfactorily observing her brood. They gobbled and her hunger satiated. Mother’s divine love, everywhere. Nourished, her litter ambled away. Mundane things that you notice in world-weariness. Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 words : Boredom  

The sweet caress of summery breeze, the mild susurrations, the stirring of dried, dead papery foliage, and the buds of life deriving strength to bloom from this decay. The day beginning to stretch, till it grows weary and seeps into twilight and the night hastily shrinking, excitedly merging into the reddish hues of dawn. This desire of the day and the yearning of night blending magically in equal portions. Their thirst quenched, satiated in vernal, verdant, vibrant spring equinox. And the blossoming love. Linking with Weekend Writing Prompt #97: equinox 

I looked all around. Shook the bedcovers. Toppled the pillows. Went down on my knees and searched underneath the bed. Switched on the flashlight and checked all the toe-spaces. Even the cabinets and wardrobes, turned them topsy-turvy. Emptied the drawers. Ah! And stacked them again. Explored all nooks, every spot that I could think of. Went around the house, rummaging, seeking, failing, retrying. You see, I had lost the day-bygone. And I sought it now. But all this search and I still could not find my yesterday. And at the eventide, I realised, I had lost my today as well. Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 words : Spot

They give prompts for writing. And the triggers remind me of you Words flow from the nib of my pen. Plain simple words that I want to say to you. Conversations that I want to have with you. I hold on to those words and weave them into poetries. I knit them into verses. I tag them into fictions and improvised fantasies. People read them. And they call me a writer. A person of free-verses. Only if they knew that I am no author. And these scribblings are no poems. That the verses they read are merely the unrequited susurrations. Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 words: Give

She is. And her being is sufficient. Complete. Adequate. Rather abundant, plentiful in all respects. She is.. The horde of possibilities that this sentence offers, all the adjectives that you can think of. Yes! She is each one of them. Ace. Adept. Accomplished. So, she is. And it is because she is that we are. Period.

Fumbling steps, steadied by your finger, balance of life literally wrapped around it. My tomorrows all assured. It was only yesterday. Seemingly so. Though it has been good two decades. Er.. Slightly more than that. Today, I stand, unfaltering, in pink blush of bride-to-be. My steps are steadier now, after years and years of running around you. But as the future stares at me, deep within, I crave the envelope of that one finger of yours. The surety it promised. The confidence it inspired. Today, I wish I could go back in time and fumble my steps all over again. Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 words : Pink

It should so happen that one eventide you come and sit by my side. And we spend the day-end reveling in togetherness. In the simple intimacy of just being there. Gradually, at the sunset, the blue and the red interweave, and the purple of the twilight grows thick. Smudging into night. And it should so happen that this nightfall blends into nightfall. This dusk into dusk. That eventide, when you come and sit by my side, there should be no dawn. How I wish!

Nutcase. May be that’s what I am. I look at the fallen foliage of autumn, dead and dried, and I fall in love. And then there is you! You with your beautiful smile. You, when you lower your eyelids, like nightfall. You, alive. Vital and spirited. Nutcase. May be that’s what I am