Creative February 28 – Ode to summer

Today is officially the last day of summer.
An ode seemed the best way to say goodbye…


spreading, sparkling, sunlit
seduces me into her simmering haze
until I rise
a glittering mote
into her expansive golden arms
her warm pulsating heart

It is easy to lose myself
all sense of identity lost
in the frenzied heart throb of a season
where all things rise to greet the sun
In one unending exultation

Summer, queenly, majestic.
as though Spring, that debutante princess
having strutted her freshness
of tender leaves and sprouting seedlings
has ripened into a delicious woman.
Who has wrested the secrets of life
from harsh Nature and
having won the battle wears her success
in medals of ripening fruit
lush dresses of deepening green
her hair adorned with flowers,
and tiaras of butterflies, bees and birds

Brazen and wanton,
laughing at her celestial lover.

when Nature breaks the cold cruel curse
of winter and offers a blessing
a reward for patience
a medal for forbearance
pinned to Earth’s breast
throws upon it
a congratulatory cloak of verdancy.

the season of the cicada
who shedding its shell
rises in the hundreds
its ululating mating call
frantic and fervid
the ultimate ode to summer


Creative February 27 – My various selves

I glance at the mirror
on the way to the next chore.
Is that a stranger?
Forehead furrowed,
focussed face, grim,
a burdened Atlas.

Then I catch
the twinkle in the eye
the smile lurking at
the corner of the mouth.
As if caught out in the game.

A catch-me-if-you-can
grinning gamine
hiding behind a tired facade
breaks through.
A cheeky, intrepid sun.

I wonder then,
about my outward self,
the one that others see
that bears little likeness
to the inner me.
Montages that dwell,
and morph and grow
in others’ minds.

So varied, so unalike
as though in each of them
dwells a different me..


Creative February 25 – Revenge

(55-word flash fiction)


The boy had killed its mother. The spider waited for its chance to avenge. Finally, it saw him at the open window. It jumped, aiming for his face. Stunned, the boy lost his balance, fell backwards, hit his head against the bed-post and passed out. No one heard the thud. He bled to death.


Creative February 23 – Age



my mother fades, as though
time was an eraser, erasing
bits of her, slowly but surely.
desires, memories, abilities
fade in steadfast succession
leaving behind holes like
she was the lead star in a poster
of a movie no longer playing.
the colours of her visage
once vibrant now fading,
its lines blurring, patchy in
parts, frayed at the edges.

I wonder how she feels about
this dying of summer, this
insidious takeover of autumn.
does she feel the sap’s steady
slow-down in her veins?
does she dread the night
that it might be her last?
does she mind turning into
just an echo of the melody.

your soul is indestructible,
they say. nothing is born
nor dies. maybe it’s my
mind that’s playing a trick.
conjuring up a movie where
there is nothing but light.


Creative February 21 – The wrong bus

(flash fiction)

The wrong bus

She was late and therefore ran to the bus-stop. A bus was just pulling in and she glimpsed a ‘3’ at the end. ‘What luck!’ she thought,’ that she could catch the bus after all.’ She got in, swiped her card and was surprised to see that the bus had many empty seats. Usually she has to hunt for a free seat at the back of the bus. She plopped down into a window seat with the seat beside her empty, reached into her bag for her novel and started to read. She had a good half-hour before her stop arrived and she was at the climactic part in the novel.

When she looked at her watch, 20 minutes had passed. She glanced out the window and a stab of panic lanced her heart. The landscape outside was frighteningly unknown and the realisation came swiftly that she had caught the wrong bus. But just to confirm she turned to her neighbour, a man who had taken the seat sometime along the journey and whose seating she had barely noticed. “Which bus is this?” she whispered.

He looked up from his own book and looked at her, recognition flooding his eyes. “Marya?” a huge grin was already dimpling his face and his eyes were twinkling with light. The years melted right before her eyes and she was back in high school and dating Peter but things were not going good and they were breaking up and going their separate ways. And now here he was, looking at her as if he wanted badly to give her a hug.

A year later they are married. And whenever she starts to tell the story with “one day I got into the wrong bus ….” He interjects laughingly, ‘the right bus, say, the right bus.”


P.S. After I wrote this my mind said, ‘What’s the point, where’s the moral of the story?” My inner voice says, “the Universe is a playful place. Be playful.” Amen to that!

Creative February 19 – Passion of Christ

(written as a collection of haiku)

from near and afar
they all came to hear you speak
tempestuous words

smouldering coals they fell
into hearts devoid of hope
setting them afire

little by little
there grew a conflagration
of souls impassioned

souls awakened
powerful force, rulers realised
they had you killed

but you unquenched
like a forest fire spread
your love blazing bright

from heart to heart
burning away the dross
leaving only love

showing us all
that to be Christ-like is
love, nothing but love