I follow you.

As you walk by
people point.
You look over your shoulder
and smile at me.
Will you remember me when we meet?

Sam

Perched upon a rootless tree

Among lush evergreen leaves

I sit with this stolen flute

O Lord, adorned by peacock-feather

If I play a tune

Would you find me?

Winona

The pink rose

Time I started writing something other than just poems. So, here's what I gave a try. Hope you like it, and please do give feedback so I could improve. Thanks! :)

She focused the clean lens of her camera and bent a little to catch a still of a pink rose, cooled and decorated with fresh dew drops. She clicked the button on the camera once she was ready to. The pink rose was beautiful on her camera screen, than it actually was. In her pale green kurti and cream chudi, she walked away from the rose, wearing the camera around her neck. She paused, as if she forgot something. Looked back at the quiet rose from a distance. A gentle smile came upon her soft bright lips. She said to herself: "A rose, with such a complicated structure survives under the wildest of conditions and in the loneliest of places. Why must I whine about my troubles when a small rose doesn't complain?" A few minutes later, a strong wind blew against her, pushing her in the direction she was heading. The rose broke off from it's stem and flew towards her. When the wind ceased, the rose gently landed at her feet. She stopped and stared at the pink beauty for a minute, before a tear rolled down her cheek, onto her lips. She carefully picked up the rose and walked away.





Madhu

Dear blogger

I changed the background back to the book shelf because I couldn't read the posts with the live news background - both post background and blog background were light and the lack of contrast confused my brain =S

And please, dear blogger(s), let us know who you are! Some of us really love(d) your writing and want to let you know.

So kindly remember to add your name at the end of the post =)

Love,

Sam

The eleventh star.

She lay on the bed for quite some time thinking. Thinking of what was going to happen next. She closed her eyes but the darkness scared her, she blinked; opened her eyes again. The windows were open, but it was dark; too dark for her to see anything at all, she blinked harder, no; definitely there wasn’t any moon tonight.

An unknown feeling swept all over her. Was it helplessness? She wondered. No. it was something more than that, something more intense, as the feeling grew stronger, she twisted and turned. It was strange. Strange how alien she felt in her very own room.

Her father was in the next room, he was discharged today; No. the doctor had bluntly said there was no hope left. And so she thought, what was going to happen next. She somehow knew he would go. He would not stay, no matter how much every one cried and prayed. She knew he had to leave, for he had whispered in her ears last night, had asked her to take care of herself and be a good girl. And yes, definitely to continue her painting classes which she was so determined to leave…

So what will happen next, Tracy wondered…

She could see the dark blue sky outside, who says you can’t count the stars, there she lay back and counted... one… two… three… four… ten… tomorrow, there will be eleven, Tracy was pretty sure. Her dad always said, once you leave this world, pop! You become a star… so tomorrow night; there shall be one more star up in the sky.

No. she wasn’t being a pessimist, she knew her dad had to leave, and she could not understand why people wanted him to stay, could they not see what her dad was going through… it was immense pain. She wanted him to go; she wanted to free him from this pain. She would not see him again, was all that they said, but… she saw him every night didn’t she? Every night he would come in her dreams, she knew it was not real, Tracy was a big girl now; but no one could deny the fact that she did not see her daddy every day that he did not come to visit her- just the way he had promised… all daddy’s always keep their promises…

Next morning, she heard them. She heard their cry. She sat and listened for quite some time, till she could take no more. Away from everyone, she sat by herself. Yes; it was over. It definitely was over. But so was his pain.

Daddy will come back, Tracy thought, but only in her dreams now. She smiled, while a tear made its way down…

I remember

I remember
the first time you laughed.
That was the day I felt complete.

I remember
the best time we had.
When we got caught,
sneaking out of class.

I remember
the flavor of ice-cream we shared,
since we didn't have enough money for two.

I remember
the very moment you cried,
when I didn't show up.

I remember
the moment you held my hand
and said,"I'll never leave you".

I remember
the last time we spoke.
I hoped you'd return.

And I remember
that you never returned for a long time.
But I kept waiting.

I still remember
the news headline - "Bangkok plane crash".
That's when I knew, my waiting was hopeless.

But I remember
that I promised myself,
that I'll always remember you,
for who you were
- A sister I never had.

Click

The wind sings a haunted, lonely tune, calling out to the ghosts of the abandoned lovers out on the streets of the world's most romantic city. It beckons them forward, to sing their story, to weave their tale into this enchanted bundle of lives...lives that are worth remembering, worth preserving, but weren't worth living.

She hunches forward, her hair blowing about slightly despite the closed window. The street lights smudge the tears on her face, distorting them, like horrible special effects in a badly cliched movie. Her arms move restlessly, needles clicking disapprovingly as she attempts to blanket herself from the pain. Tries to tie the suffering together to make something stronger, something lasting - every one of their stories counts, needs to have a stitch. They all needed warmth and comfort in their lives, something the city of love and magic and art couldn't give them. They needed the shelter in which they could finally sleep peacefully, amidst each others' souls, dreaming of the romantic ideas of falling asleep in someone's arms, or falling asleep over a lovely smelling book with a quill in their hand, inspiration having swept them away. A shelter in which they could dream forever, and not come back.

The needles continue to click disapprovingly.