The muse

Once more, his quill stains A4 blanks,

Scribbling and scrawling against time.

And every single syllable talks only of you.

The poet’s chosen muse, he reveres you.

In gliding thoughts and flowing words filling the blanks.

His imagination brims with sentiments of lovely time.

Perhaps this will be one last time,

That his quill will talk of you.

With you gone, he lays it to rest amidst fluttering blanks.

He holds you again in the blanks, scribbling poems and prose each time, knows not what to write but you.

Shivering sea

Despite the layers, she stiffled a shiver,
Under a foggy grey sky, without a visible star,
Amidst a myriad of humans and cars, an endless sea.

His words stirred her, like ripples in the sea,
With bated breath she listened, stiffled another shiver,
Moon would have made it perfect, moon and some star.

But she knew they were out there, both the moon and the star,
And that made it perfect. Her own perfect little story in a sea
Of infinite love stories. Two souls bursting in an ecstatic shiver.

She stiffled another shiver, was it because there was no moon or star that she was now left with a sea of memories.

Monday's measly minutes #7

Dear Monday,

I participated in December poetry slam : Tritinas.
Of the two prompts given to me, I have attempted one. On a workMonday, I could afford only these many measly minutes. Plus the skepticism about trying a totally new thing.

But I liked the format so I will try the other set soon.

On with the prompt set: Christine Hanolsy suggested the following set for me: dark, wind, gold.

And here's my very first Tritina:

Only if you were not a dream of dark
Winter night; I would have told the wind,
To call you back; Bonding beneath the sliver of silvery gold.

But when the skies were stained a sparkling gold,
All I had with me were wrinkled reminders from dark,
And some lilting sussarations of the cold moist wind.

Slowly the leaves and straws scattered in the wind,
With the wind. Slowly, through you I turned to gold,
Burning yet satiated, Like fireflies in the dark.

Like a wanderer's homecoming from the dark, like a sparrow in sweeping strong wind, like a moth drawn to amber gold, I too surrendered.

So while you figure out what I did here, my Monday clock is asking me to move on to the next thing in the list.

Welfare unto all ...