Word potrait #10 The man with the peacock feathers

At the turn under the bridge he suddenly appears. Like an animal suddenly leaping out of a bush.

Three bundles of peacock feathers attached to his stick like physique. The biggest bundle on his back with the peacock feathers fanning over his head. One clutched in his hand with the lovely colors drooping to the ground.  The third one stuck in a band around his waist.

The lines on his ageing face reflected a hardened soul.  As if compassion evaporated long back from his veins. His hazy eyes vacant of any ability to perceive beauty. Each feather  mercilessly plucked off from innocent unsuspecting pretty birds. The bird of the goddesses. The bird of good omen.

The need and greed of this world mingled grotesquely in his sudden appearance under the bridge. It was a flash of an eclipsed world while the sun was trying hard to brighten the day.

Creative Hiatus

I sit in this summer heat

I type and delete

it has been too long

all this waiting .

This block of the writers

this creative hiatus.

 

The words that flowed once

to meet the world

that prolific imagination is

kind of blurred .

 

Not that I had any fame

or there were any

stars added to my name .

But even

‘Anonymous’ were all fighters

their word just brightened us

This block of the writers

damn! creative hiatus .

 

It sucks to have no readers

but its worse to have no words

It is so absurd

The din of the days and

The noises of the world

that once  stirred me to write

has now silenced my words.

 

I am stuck somewhere in

a creative hiatus.

 

Where no truth comes to bite us

Where no light comes to ripe us

where  the heat of unchecked information

has parched and dried us .

 

So,

Typing and deleting with

need for words so enormous

Like a  lion so  ravenous

 

I wait for the end

of this creative hiatus .

#She….. Doing the dishes.

When time runs too fast
And she struggles to keep up
When thoughts run amok
And she is tired chasing them
She does the dishes.

She stands alert… Attentive
Near the basin as the tap
Gushes water
The sponge soaked in soap
Carefully traverses the flat
Terrain of the dishes
Frothing bubbling

As if 

Dispensing all emotions
While quietly cleansing

A certain calm sets in
As the dishes gracefully
Allow the sponge to glide
And the stress to slide

With the water doing the
Last bit of letting the
Grime dissolve and rush
To the drain

Defeated and finally exiled

Like a wicked character

In Shakespeare’s play.

The sequence repeated
With every dish with
The same quiet and focussed
Vigor

Till the mind becomes fluid
And there is created a flow
As effortless as the water
Running down the drain.

And she cleanses her tired soul
Laden with grime
One dish at a time.