uncanny lessons for children

self-portrait-on-the-operating-table-edvard-munch-oil-painting

I

close your small velveteen ears, darling,
don’t pay heed to the waste of voices
and their restful, rabid resemblance
with your callous crimes, and dither from
repentance, free every broken song
and write an equal-footed murmur
with your sagacious mouth — sewn shut —
all your comeuppance unstrung on time.

~

II

never drink from the well of knowledge,
for it heralds the end of peace, and
keep hostage, the calamity of
your condition — dreadful purple and
slated fates, furtive in a fragile
dance — a duel between demand and
need for self-effacement, bringing forth
the wreckage of woebegone endings.

~

III

fingers for eating, lips for smiling,
cheeks to be always flushed the right shade
of painted roses — pink and red and
every shade of bloom, flourishing in
the din of hollowed-out bones — tendons
that stick out in felicitation
of life — your awareness has come to
light — switch off your mind before it tries.

~

.

#8linepoems with #9syllables, originally posted on my new Insta handle (Pt. 3 would be uploaded today): @anmol.ha
Linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU.

Disclaimer: Not really meant for children. Ha!

Image source: Self Portrait on the Operating Table by Edvard Munch

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for over a month now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

backup now, the blue screen of death

eyes clad with kohl, a kid
walks, every step downloaded
with a faint trace of innocence,
a cache of life, wonder and
bright colors.

/a stack of thoughts, a queue of memories
looping in an array of careless composure/

I read about the hacking away of life
of a kid, of the school where I spent
almost years of five, in an emulation
of deeds, as the school bus met with
an accident, tender hands clutching
wane seats, as we did back in the day,
when the driver took a reckless turn,
as if communicating in bauds: a wish
or an anguish, a sign but of a nybble.

/clusters on a disk are we, bugs winding down,
a chip of a life booting characters, low bandwidth/

.

*Using a bit of computer jargon…

O sweet baby…

O sweet, sweet baby,

now you must go to sleep,

the fairies would arrive

to caress your cheeks,

I bestow upon you,

the world of dreams,

far away from life,

where there is a river,

of your beloved cream,

and the candied leaves, of

the chocolate trees,

the soil of love,

embracing you,

keeping you safe for me,

.

O sweet, sweet baby,

now you must wander around,

in the trails, of the forest,

chat with the bunnies,

and play with the monkeys,

they will tickle you, and

you shall laugh,

and appease my heart,

with your toothless grin,

you can walk up the hill,

and reach the cave, where

resides the treasure-

a glittering mirror, where you can see,

what is most precious to me,

.

O my darling baby, close your eyes,

with my gentle kiss, hush, and go to sleep

.

Don’t be surprised. Yes, I am quite a dark person but I can write some playful and light verses as well. Moreover, I love kids.

Written for dVerse Poetics; it is a sort of lullaby.

Image source

Imagined World: A Rispetto

juvenile, a little kid prancing around

playing along with his sharp ingenious mind

treading on an illusionary firm ground,

he fabricates a hero, powerful kind,

causes him to brawl against callous people

who would pester and mock him at his cripple,

he became the hero himself, set to fight

in that imaginary world of his sight

Suzushi (cool/coolness) Haiku

under blazing sun

lone sweltering traveler 

comes blowing cool breeze

.

feel of a cold breeze

sleeping under a fig tree

shaded from sunshine

.

cold water shower

after a day out in heat

a sound of relief

.

heavy clouds gather

after days of summer heat

cool drop falls on cheeks

.

playing small children

suzushi environment

change in the weather

* For Carpe Diem # 218

Frock: A 100 Word Story

Copyright – Janet Webb

The not-so-red, slightly pink frock was hovering in the air and it appeared as if  an invisible girl was clad in it, hung there by the side-railing.

Momma, see that pretty frock,” the girl walking along her mother by the street, pointed towards this piece of cloth.

“It is pretty.”

“I want it,” her eyes glinted with hope.

“I’ll ask dada to get one for you.”

“But I want this one,” she tugged at her mother’s arm, restraining to move any further.

“Don’t whine.”

“But…”

She was pulled up in the arms and taken away, her eyes adorned with tears.

Note:-

This is written in consideration of the Friday Fictioneers writing prompt.