The old-fashioned well was a hungry mouth. I dropped in pebbles, iron nails, and my grandma’s silver anklet, just to hear them go deep into the abyss. The heavier items landed with a thud and the water danced. The six-year-old me watched for the spirit lurking in the deep. Plumb-deep the iron seeketh sleep, Where …
Independence shackles! It leaves you flailing. My dependency ended with my mom taking away my rights to be her child. Her passing forced me to be free. How does grief feel? Like a geyser erupting without warning. How does grief feel? Like someone put a lid on the geyser, and the force-shutting is gurgling …
Gosh, the Rose I am! Dripping with nectar and gorgeously vibrant. I’m the full package; good looks, good looks, and yeah, bristling thorns too. Be prepared for the trade-off while plucking. My dear friend, the bee is likely lurking in the velvet of my petals, and he isn't quite known to care about your photo …
Five stones flat sit on the hot brick. Fling the Master, catch it quick! Toss it high, grab two from the ground, Sun in your hair as you jump around. Catching three, then four in the air, The black cat watches with a rusty stare. Five stones caught, we’re bored no more! #NaPoWriMo Day 7 …
#NaPoWriMo Day 5 Challenge: Write a poem in which you talk about disliking something – particularly something utterly innocuous, like clover. Its glow steals the soft peach of the dark and swaps it for a cold, plastic white. My night light is not a guide; it’s a witness to the fact that I’m still awake. …
Dry and dusty ‘loo’ in the desert of Rajasthan brings messages of fatigue and heat strokes. Against this lethargy inducing wind, the makeshift kitchens yields its heat beating cures; the sharp bite of raw onions and watered down yogurt drinks. Guarded by the Aravali ranges, the dusty "snow" of the dunes begins to settle with …
Peaks of rugged stone, Nothingness spans the deep veins, Gazing at the floor. Silent in the ocean’s pit, Vows of always meet never. A Tanka a day! 4/1/26 NaPoWriMo Prompt. A five-line poem with a 5 / 7 / 5 / 7 / 7 syllable-count.
The glossy, thick coat of lipstick she applies, Before she goes to the midtown bars, all for a beau. Today a pink, a pick me up, Or a seductive red for someone new. She waits for the one, someone, anyone in this crowded, bustling place. Some days it’s just water, ten bucks saved to save …
Ghazal Your beautiful words spread like Chanel Number Five. The few syllables I utter, fall flat and nowhere close to the Famous Five. When you speak, it is perfection, a clear five by five. When I utter, it is nonsense, just empty boloney five. You are love’s very essence, where tender feelings strive I am …
prachi jain 