My Poetry

Moonlit Dinner

white and black moon with black skies and body of water photography during night time

Seaside dinners near moonlit waters are utterly charming. I shudder in delight when I think of the dappled moon playing with the inky sea, drawing me into the non-anfractuous expanse that merges with the shadows stretching into the night. The dancing foam that flirts with the shoreline is a mesmerising sight too.

Only a few months ago, my husband and I sat sipping wine and gazing into the sound of the sea. We tasted ten blissful years of togetherness upon our tongue, and exchanged customary sighs of pleasure. The faint, rhythmic base from the bar filtered through the air, but failed to mar the beauty all around us.

twilight deepens
into stars and silence —
must one get tipsy on wine alone?

My Poetry

Pester and Marigold

blue green and purple poker chips
Photo by Pixabay on . This poem is written using the wordle prompt from Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie

The gate stood yawning wide,
rusted and uncared for,
the entry into another world —
a world of chaos.

Of dog bitten door mats,
and flee infested sofas;
of bloated tropical fish,
not underwater;

of grease smeared cushions,
and the smell of dirty socks;
of tables crawling with ‘roaches;
and broken chair seats.

The stairs were carpeted
with unwashed clothes;
One would wonder how anyone
was able to get up those.

A woman stepped out a door,
her hair decorously in place,
her lipstick shone burnt red,
round a hemmablind smile.

She drew up a seat —
the suspicion of a lizard’s tail
disappeared up a wooden leg —
and spilled out a bag of tokens.

One by one she counted them,
then turned around and whistled;
Pester ambled in — a shabby creature
with a pinfeather in his mouth.

He set a paw on the woman’s knee,
and gazed at the tokens curiously
as in a bag the final token she dropped,
and signed a cheque with ‘Marigold’.

Then up they got, and out the door —
shut with a bang of indifferent habit —
and down the broken cobbled path,
they walked back into misfortune.

My Short Fiction


close up of heart shape
Photo by Pixabay on This piece of flash fiction has been written for the Wordle challenge #206 at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie.

The wind picked up, scattering the dried leaves all over the yard and into the road. Faye pushed the hair out of her eyes and gazed unseeingly into the distance as though suddenly rendered atemporal. The rounded handle of the broom lay forgotten in her hands. It was the sound of a locomotive that was responsible for her inertia.

Memories flooded her mind — of the day her marriage fell apart; her husband had boarded the last train out that evening. It had been his opinion that she loved her job better than she did him.

And perhaps she had. A screenwriter lived in a world of imagination, married to writing, to work. But his absence in her life these many months brought home, more and more, how misguided she had been in assuming her work was all she needed. Without him, she had no more imagination, just a gnawing pain in her heart — an emptiness, a sadness that lost itself in mundane routine. Her lopsided views and her dogged stance of her rights had drained out all the vitality in a marriage that had begun with so much promise. She spent each day sweeping up her yard, drinking coffee, barely eating, and staring blankly at a typewriter, and in her head she lived her days with her husband now gone.

Faye sighed, and moved to sweep up the leaves in her yard. She had messed up, but she would try her best to put herself together. Perhaps, she wondered not for the first time, she ought to go and find him. Apologise. And this time around she would work hard at her marriage; revitalise it. Maybe he would forgive her…would he?

The creaking of the gate caught her attention. Faye turned around and her eyes widened.

Tired but hopeful stood her second chance.