My Poetry

A Sentinel of History


How still a monument can stand; the silent, stone-cold witness of centuries past. Its walls might have ears, but there is no tongue. History, as we know it, is shaped by the version we read. What living man or woman can know the truth? Read with a pinch of salt and connect the dots. That is the only way to look at millennia and a world of things that have happened and people who have lived. Who is to say what history would look like a hundred years from now? Will I feature in it as a villain or a hero? Or will I simply be a person without a voice — a blur in the face of history.

mark of a dynasty
lost in the truth of time —
the Qutb Minar

My Poetry


– Anka Zhuravleva. This week’s Photo Challenge at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie.

Snow White in a Red Hood,
tasting the forbidden food of youth.
Rotten teeth from flavoured strawberry,
the only colour in a dull world of chaos.

Just one little bite, lips of red!
And the cold will seep into your bones,
to forget the world around you,
and lay your head in a sleep deep.

No one will touch that hair of ebony;
no lips to wake the dead.
For who can do so who is just like Snow White,
a sojourner from a dying land?

Misbegotten, misunderstood,
reviled and ridiculed for daring
not to be different; where the norm
is abnormal and the price paid too high.

Sleep on, Snow White!
Sleep on, Sleeping Beauty!
It is better to do so than to stay awake
in the belly of the Big Bad Wolf.

My Poetry

Broken Wings Heal

A photo by ezorenier @ deviantart. A photo-writing challenge by Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie.

Broken wings of white,
unspeakable rags — ripped, torn;
even goodness knows loneliness
when the heart is missing its Maker.

Tic-tock; there is still time!
Broken wings can still take flight
on the wind of He who makes and heals.

Knitted wings — brilliant, bright;
rags all gloriously washed clean;
goodness is now an offshoot
of a heart that knows its Maker.