Remembrance

Day#6 of IntrotoPoetry

Prompt: Screen

Device: Enjambment

Black night. The cold screened

By two layers of blankets, inside which

It is darker still, but warm. Suddenly, a buzz.

A tiny screen lights up, a thin arm stretches

Out of the warmth, braving the cold

To see who it could be, thinking of her, in spite of

The cold

And the warmth of blanket cocoons.

Bedtime Story

Let me tell you a bedtime story.

A story which began a long long time ago

In a faraway place, hidden deep inside

Called the heart.

The heart led a happy life:

It would be happy as long as it listened

To her wise mother’s words, “Dear Heart,

Never visit your ugly neighbour, Memory”.

But one day Heart leapt across the gate

And paid a visit to Memory,

And this bedtime story is about

The sad results of this visit.

.

This is a story about happy eyes

That turned dull, of smiles frozen,

Of days that dragged by, of

Forgettable people and fleeting joys.

.

This is a story of numbness

And an all surprassing loneliness:

Of dejection, and a constant

Dull ache right below the skin.

.

It’s about always feeling cold,

The tips of your fingers constantly freezing,

About laughter and words sounding distant

And never experiencing a moment of silence.

.

Oh, do you not want to hear this story?

Then go to sleep, darling. But remember,

Sleep isn’t a safe place anymore;

That’s where those hands always find you.

What to Make of You

Writing 201: Poetry

Day#7 Prompt: Fingers, Form: Prose poem, Device: Assonance

I could look at your restless long fingers the whole day long.Your soft, fond fingers rubbing my aching back so tender, so gentle. Your nervous fingers, fumbling confusedly as you speak to someone you don’t know. Fingers that fail at tying my hair. Experts at holding me before I fall and dividing food. Fingers that lazily tap on your stupid phone. Make me feel loved, make me feel covered through their warmth, no, their heat, through all the different ways they know to touch. Scare me like nothing ever has or ever will when you are angry, the grip of your fingers so icy, so strong on my arm that I am choked. I don’t know what to make of you or your fingers: should I trust the warmth or the cold anger? Your fingers lay waiting and apprehensive as your mouth asks for forgiveness. My eyes are still fixed on your fingers to read what you’ll do next.

This Night

We lay on the moist grass

A soft wind blew. The cold

Had taken leave, summer

Had not yet stomped in.

It was the beautiful in-between season

When tiny flowers unabashedly coloured

And the nights were cloaked in a cooling hug.

 

The black trees swayed gently above us

The stars seemed so close and the sky so near

That it seemed they’d fall on us any moment.

 

But all I could see was your tender smile

And the shadows of leaves softly touching your face

As the sky shone softly in your eyes,

I realized I could always see this night

In you. 

The Street Light

The street was empty, dark and desolate

Its quietness whispered something only I could hear,

And spellbound, I soaked in the colour of the night. 

 

The cold light from the ATM in the corner

And the occasional blinking car speeding by

Reminds me where I am, and my fear

Takes the colour of the street light:

A dull yellow, used to shining every night.

 

Yet, my legs refuse to move faster.

I pause for a moment, and shut my eyes,

Feeling the November cold brushing my ears. 

I block out the lights, the cars, until I feel

The magical perfection of the night,

In a way I can never feel when my eyes are open,

When my fear shines dully, like the street light.