She is a Woman

Threshold by Chantal e.y. Bethel

she sings her sweet song, which seems to have risen

from within her smooth skin, vibrating in her strides,

as she plays with her eyes, with smiles, she has stored

in her sighs, as she gets along, she spreads warmth,

shielding us from every storm to come, she is she-

a woman who lives a part of her story, through

her gestures, her expression that tingle the skin of

us lookers, having us laugh with her, pray, sing her

in our words, she is a woman, she strives for love,

she is a key of piano; to touch her is to surge into

the sacred waters, she seeps into our minds to

have us looking for her, even when she’s not there,

she is a woman, a sorceress who carves us into

what we are capable to be, she is a goddess,

she is a mother, a lover, a bond, she is a woman,

she is always the flame that lights our lives,

she is the best as she is, different, wicked, sweet,

she is a woman, and hence she sings, a woman

playing roles unflinching throughout her life,

she is a woman who is everything, that is to be

.

Happy International Women’s Day. This simple poem is a tribute from my side to all the women.

And to end this post, let’s relive the song by Billy Joel:

Walking with her… in her heels

she wakes up drenched in the ocean of dreams,

and hurries off to repair, work on her life’s seams,

brushing rivulets of her hair, she leans into the mirror,

considering self, moving forward near and nearer,

only disturbed by the ring of the peaceful phone,

but deciding whether to attend it or not, it is gone

to leave a silence, that she tastes tingling on her lips,

and finally, she leaves for the streets, swaying her hips,

down the path to the usual location, she waits,

habitually ignoring the trail of car after car that rates,

the size and shape of her and others of her business,

conforming to their needs, their lives of weakness,

one hand points towards her, agreeing her to come,

she notices, complies, and through the door she sits glum,

on the seat reeking of cigarettes and urine of old,

she feels the four wheels move, she is now sold

to the night, forgetful of her heart that refuses to beat,

she falls out, not to see a thing or hear the fall of sleet,

coming to herself, she stands, stumbling, stiffness she feels,

exits a bar, a motel, an apartment in her heels,

carefully counting the bills, walking on into the day,

alone on the path where there are many and many  lay,

but no one really is, but for dreams that await on the single bed,

those false entities have no seams repaired, she has no threads

.

Image source

I started off without any thought but then I was reminded of the insensitivity of some people towards those… whose lives they have not lived and yet they judge. They do not know how it is to be in their shoes. I feel and I can at least try to imagine their lives… and give words to their untold stories. This is a work of fiction but it may well be a real life account… I don’t know.

I appreciate constructive criticism.

I am linking it up with dVerse Meeting the Bar.

Yarn of Life

Yarn (copyright- me)

Yarn (copyright- me)

yarn of life,

she weaves through her old frail hands,

one day be made into a cardigan

or may be a woolen cap of a young boy’s wonder,

she remains behind the scene,

yarn slipping through her hands,

silky-smooth threads,

.

she is happiness,

she is love,

she is struggle,

she is survival,

she is the artisan,

she sits in a reverie,

her eyes focused,

as she sutures the yarn of life,

in her old frail hands.

.

*For Right2Write Prompt. Just click on the name and that will take you to the prompt theme of the week.

penance

Woman in white of face withering

away with a wane look in eyes

pleas for penance for less than pensive

attitude towards the plight of

those who suffer seams of stress

time and again same as ever

 

she traverses, travels for that time

when she’d understand truth after all

she drowns and drenches in ditches

of the pure waters, drink for relief

from her callous crimes that cause

her infinitesimal catastrophic pain

* I tried.. for dverse Form for All. At least there is alliteration.. <<innocent>>

innocent

innocent she was

in her resolute silence

 

innocent she was

in her underlying posture

 

innocent she was

in her gullible gestures

 

innocent she was 

in her worthwhile moments

 

innocent she was

when she thrived and dreamed

 

innocent she is

when she shed those pearls

 

innocent she is

in her emotionless words

 

innocent she is

in  her dead eyes

 

innocent she is

in her submissive forms

 

innocent she is

in her nude covers

 

a sculpture of innocence

she was, she is.

 

* Inspired by the photograph titled Innocent by amberafrica. It is extraordinary.

“Baby…”

Under the star light, he silently moved towards her.

She was sitting on the pier, gazing at the ripples of water, appearing on the sea surface. They were on a vacation and he was in a weird mood all the time.

“Baby”

She heard his voice and looked back. He had a sharp knife, clenched in his left hand with a mad look in his eyes. She was speechless, her mouth gasped open. Coming back to her senses, she shrieked.

“Listen, baby”

She wailed a long cry for help.

Lights switched on and people came pouring out, some spreading torchlight to brighten the night in front of them.

“What?”
“What happened?”
“Who was that?”
“Did you hear…?”
“Mom, I am afraid.”
“Hey, do you know?”

Rushing towards the location, they saw the entire scene; a mad man with a knife going to kill a young woman.

“Hey…,” a brave man moved ahead, talking to the man with the knife, “Throw that away. You can’t do anything to her now.”

“But…”

“Throw it away.”

He threw it away.

“And what is in you right hand. What are you hiding?”

He brought his hand forward to show a chocolate cake, resting on his palm.

A wave of shock fell across the peering crowd and the muttering started again.

“It is for my wife. It is her birthday; so I brought across a cake for her to cut down under the celestial light. It was a surprise,” he meekly said and started to cry.

.

* Written in response of the Trifecta Challenge: Light