Weaving memories on a boat—just me, her, the lake and the setting sun. I sang a song she loved but must’ve said something wrong because I remember her laughing, must’ve been a funny mistake. Her laughter and smiling eyes, my heart skipped a beat.
As we tried to read each other’s lines, her fingers softly brushing on my palm, goosebumps all over. She was a stranger before, now she was a stranger no more.
The train horn blared, she got in, I stood on the platform first, then after listening to my hammering heart I stepped in the train for one last embrace, before she left me forever.
Setting sun blushes Two young lovers are parting A spring memory
James is feeling pretty down these days, he’s back on meds, a very serious exam is coming close, he’s living with the worst roomate ever and he’s on the verge of being broke again.
On this day, without a date, on a back street, dusky, he finds happiness curled up in a corner–a puppy, alone, must’ve gotten separated from the pack. He brings him back home, feeds him milk and after a brawl with the roomate, it’s decided that the puppy will stay. He names him ‘Colu’ short for Columbus.
With Colu to give him company, everything has gotten better. James, now, has a good routine, in which he goes on a walk with Colu in the mornings and evenings, eats healthy diet and studies religiously for the exam. Even though he’s still on meds and almost broke, James’ feeling pretty good these days.
posted over at dverse where Lisa is hosting Prosery Monday. The prompt is to write a piece of flash-fiction or creative non-fiction, but it cannot exceed 144 words in total (not including the title) and must include the given line–
On this day without a date, On a back street, dusky
Spring’s dead. Summer killed her, burned her to a crisp, with his flaming winds. I witnessed it.
Before Spring shut her eyes and said goodbyes, some of her flowers and some of her cool breeze greeted me one morning. They were weeping and then I wept too because I didn’t know what else to do.
Winter will revive her, this I know with all my heart. So, until then, we will have to stay strong–endure these summer storms and wintry blizzards.
Late spring rain soaks soil Bidding her farewell to us Summer heat seeps in
Where to start? Finding the in is a problem and I’m sure many poets have it, not just newbies like me. The seed of a poem lay dormant in my heart.
I plant it with love and water it with imagination. Now it’s a seedling, it needs sunshine–so I step out into the open carrying it with care. It transforms, I have to dig up some soil from my garden and plant it there, it’s a willow now, my little buddy.
I water it everyday and the Sun shines upon my poetree everyday. Nowadays, it has gotten big, my garden is too small for it now. It’s trying to break the wall of my home–to expand–but I can’t afford it.
I can’t cut it down either for it’s my best friend in whole world, so with tears I am watering it less these days.
She never says where she’s from; whenever I ask, she just gives me a crescent-shaped smile and says, “I’m from the craters; I was born on the Moon.” She has a wicked sense of humor; you’ve got to give her that.
In the joint, Johnny is rocking; the rhythm and blues won’t let this night be silent. Outside, I meet her, she’s standing right in front of me, the Moon—a half-pearl directly above us, “I’m back from the black” she says to me in a shady tone.
“Come on, babe, don’t be so icy,” I tell her. “Let’s go inside; let’s dance!” She chuckles, her eyes tickle. “Let’s not. Let’s get back home, I’ll sing you a song, I’ll write you a poem and we can dance too if you want but not in there because They are there.”
“the moon looks pretty” “alright, but don’t let me down” “have I ever, love?”
It was a Wednesday morning, not very long ago, monotonous rhythm of drums beating in the distance, melancholic sounds of family & friends and the sound of strong spring wind, when we carried grandpa’s pyre to the bank of Ken river.
As the pyre burned, the embers glowed, the ashes flew out of control. There was silence, except for the sounds of wind and burning fire. The end of a life-cycle. Suddenly, I had a very strong desire to be a child again, to walk with him in Summer sunlight, to pluck flowers of Champa and smell their fragrance.
Then, with sorrow and some anger I realized, I cannot control the cycles of seasons and life. Like the ashes, they were out of my control.
Beneath blue spring skies A tree loses its flowers
Clicked by me on the way back home
When we headed home, the roads emptier than I’d ever seen before, for the day was the day of Holi, the festival of Spring. People were all in their homes, playing with colors and welcoming Spring.
We grew slight melancholic, though no one said a word, no colors were played in our home, the sweet spring sceneries travelled past us.
After all, now, the Summer would be here soon and so would be the flowers of Champa with their sweet fragrance.
A/N: Today, 3 years ago, my dadaji (‘grandpa’ in english) passed away, I am sharing this here to remember him. A month ago, I also shared a poem I wrote for him after attending his funeral in March 2020. I wrote this haibun a few days after that poem, for a dverse prompt.
When people ask me, “What am I doing these days?” And when I tell them that I’m teaching high school students in a local coaching center near my home, that I’m doing it for no money, that I’m just happy and content with communicating knowledge, they call me dumb, give me advice, and ask me, “Why are you doing it for free?” “At least ask for minimum wage and a certificate, are you stupid?” “Know your worth, Mrityunjay!”
Whenever that happens, I feel sad, blue, stressed, and doubtful. These people are my friends; they want what’s best for me; they must be right, right?
Am I really so stupid and dumb? Am I just playing into the hands of the manager? Are powerful people taking advantage of me? Do I not know my worth? Is money the only thing that decides what a human being is worth? Does money outweigh content?
So, I start thinking again at night—does an interview really imply “a meeting between two liars?” Do we all have to lie to get a job that pays well? Is a good paying job worth lying for? Is it worth my conscience? Is it?
Do my friends really know what’s best? Or are they just hiding behind a hard shell? Like turtles? When underneath they’re all a mess like me? a beautiful mess, like a Rubik’s.
They call me crazy and tell me not to get angry. Alrighty, friends, here I am. I am not hiding anymore; I feel pain, I feel the wind—I can see the deep blue sky of a perfect spring day, and it makes me cry.
I’ll ask for the certificate. Okay. But I won’t ask for the money. Money is something I’ll never ask from anyone except my father. That kind of money will have to come to me when it desires to do so. It knows where I am.
I am just not hiding under any shell no more. I am hiding in my writing, in my teaching, and in my music. I am free for all those who desire to see, hear, and learn me.
I am feeling under the weather today, I couldn’t go for my daily morning run, I’ve probably caught the seasonal-cold. Reminds me of the COVID-19 days. Oh boy! They were hard times! Anyways, I wrote this rambling non-fiction prose more for myself rather than for anyone else, as I’ve often said, writing certainly clears the mind of the shit that’s lying around in abundance. I feel lighter already. I hope when you read it and comment (if you want to, no pressure!), it’ll clear your mind too, dear reader.
Early this morning, I stopped running to look at the flowers. Shades of pink, purple, white, and yellow—shades of life, shades of love. I think, that life, must always be driven by love, not hate and rage.
In the early hours of morning, as I looked at the flowers, I thought of You. In past years, I used to think You were mine. That I posess You because I love You. That I must, like an intriguer, spread the idea that You are the One; to everyone I meet.
But this year’s a different thing. I’ll not think of You like that no more. I’ll not pluck these beautiful flowers for Your worship. But from time to time, I’ll just stop running to look at them and I’ll think of You.
You, watching over me and my kind with your pale, potent shine.
Posted over at dverse where Merril is hosting Prosery Monday.
Prompt: Write a prose, no longer than 144 words (not including the title), the prose must also include the prompt line (word for word): “This year’s a different thing, I’ll not think of you”. ~ Charlotte Mew
I didn’t receive the free contributor’s copy in 2021 due to some unknown reasons and I didn’t notify this problem to the editor or anyone else either, I just accepted the payment and forgot about it because I think I didn’t really care for it at the time. I was going through a rough patch and was thinking of dropping poetry altogether; really.
Things are looking up now, touchwood, and I’m pursuing my calling. So, 2 weeks ago, I dropped a message to the editor who accepted this piece at that time and requested them to send me a contributor’s copy if it’s available and affordable. I also told them that it’d be great to have my first-ever printed poem with me as I start my journey as a creative writer.
She was very supportive, and she obliged. Thus, the magazine arrived today. It’s full of other great horror haiku and haibun too, so it’s a bonus!
Haibun by M. Jay Dixit
I live alone in the dark land where time is just a myth and the Moon is my Sun, the clock of my timeless land, looking over me and my kind with its potent shine making our thirst stronger, a red hunger, as we lie in our silent bed places with cold comfy pillows and good dark all around, biding our hunger till it is at its full, Harvest Moon, the humans call it and how very veracious that is.
When the sun leaves the sky bruised and bloody and a red Moon like a drunkard’s eye rides the night piercing its darkness with silver knives, when the witches in forests sit by the fire to do moon magic and the scared children gather garlic buds in red cloths, we fly off from our centuries old coffins dressed as bats and crows. We never look back for our huger is ripest, blinding red stars shine in our eyes; they’re the last stars these delicious little humans see before blackness bites them with its sharp and hungry teeth.
hungry autumn moon
eats the east in its wide mouth
a big bat flies free
I’m clothed in warm happy clothes, I am wrapped in a fluffy blanket as I am writing this. It’s an early winter morning. Stress comes in with its red warnings and tells happiness to “suck it”. Happiness, like a fused tubelight, vanishes in a second. I wrestle with mania.
Acute-transient-psychosis, doctors said, causes are unknown. It’s genetic but no one in my family has ever had it, we have inquired everyone we know, in the process, our whole family now knows that I’m cuckoo in the head.
My own deduction is that it was stress-induced. In the days leading to the breakdown, I was very happy and stressed out at the same time. So, now, my cuckoo brain associates happiness with danger and cautions me every time I feel that sunny feeling. Stress is a bitch, everything I do is stitched with its color.
Write prose based on some given lines of poetry. This can be flash-fiction or creative non-fiction, but it cannot exceed 144 words in total (not including the title) and must not be poetry (no versification, line breaks, metre, etc.)
Write a prose to William Stanley Merwin’s following line of poetry:
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
A/N: I’ve written a creative-nonfiction prose today. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is just a side effect of our excellent pattern-recognition system of our brain. My father, who at one time rode his Yamaha RX-100 at 120 km/hr for long periods of time now can’t even go as high as 80 km/hr on his Kawasaki Boxer. Reason: He had an accident, which didn’t even happen at high speed but that’s PTSD for you. Our brain doesn’t know what caused the trauma so it just cautions everything that happened in the time leading up to it. Well, happiness is my trigger it seems. And if my trauma’s trigger is stress, then what? It’s a vicious cycle, isn’t it?
September heart-to-hearts 