Last Night
Under the whispering
Of hearts
Two souls swam
Weighing the blues
On their weightlessness

Last night
I don't know when
I stepped on Time
And tripped
Falling flat
On my face

Last night
The water
That fell
From my eyes
Burned holes
In your picture

Last night
Setting my dreams
On fire
I warmed you
To living
Once more

Friday Flash 55 Fiction

And thus spake Adam of his first wife Lilith:

" God, she's always fighting for more space on bed . I need another wife."

So God destroyed Lilith, created Eve for him.

He could've brought in a double bed for more space , but He knew

That chopping trees might cause 'Celestial Warming'

Converting Heaven to Hell.

Last Night you suggested
That perhaps
I loved suffering


My sullied soul
Encased in mud
Reaches out
And stands before
The look
That strips me
Unhanded
Each time

Soaking Sparks
I am charged
To aching
Melting merging.

Having you
As much a pain
As not having
And never
Stop wanting too...

You were right
Perhaps
I do love suffering...

Last Night
You said you needed
To close just one window
And shut out the storm...

That you had
But just one window
In your room

You were so wrong
There were in fact two
Both open

One to storming skies
Quivering in heaven's
Fury unleashing

And the other
To another two
Stormy eyes

Wavering
In a private hell's
Fiery containment.

Last Night
You so perfectly poised
Over me
Poured poison
Into my openings
Flooding my eyes
Like July

Wiping my tears
You soothed
Murmuring
'Poison will kill poison'
Not knowing
How it seared
My flesh
While traveling

Scars unseen
Are scars unknown...
Covered
And simmering
Insides...

Friday Flash 55 Fiction : The Flip Side

This 55ve is specially dedicated to answering a question asked by Susie (The original boss of 55ves) put in my last 55ve's comment box : S said...har har, i wonder what the women have to say about the men?

Susie, Women rarely say anything 'about' men. They say 'to' men directly!


Faith Healer: " God wants to heal you all . All you've to do is place one hand on your heart and other on the sick part."

Old Man: (Puts one hand on his heart and other on his fly)

Old Lady: You Idiot! The man said He would heal the sick , and not raise the dead !

From ' Follies of Youth'

The studio emanated a musty, oily smell which was nauseating in its stingy sharpness.


Ever now and then the breeze would blow in from the single open window and would reach her. But not before it had touched half a dozen mounted canvas sheets, with fresh paint on them, sitting on their easels . The freshness of the breeze got tainted with the odor of turpentine and linseed oils on its way by the time it reached her. She sat there for a while , then picked up her painting paraphernalia and strode out .


Outside the sun shone bright and clear and cool. The chill of the cold surface winds that blew, managed to block out the warmth from its still slanting February rays. But at least the breeze was fresh and laden with the sweet smell of spring.


She closed her eyes and let it permeate her nostrils. Then drawn with it , she was led to where it grew stronger. Lugging her canvas along , she jumped across the fence of foliage to the other side. The sharp thorns scratched her bare arms and drew some blood . But she was far too preoccupied with what she saw, than to take notice.


A myriad of colorful assortment lay before her eyes, gleaming in the sunshine. It seemed that the gardener had somehow accidentally spilled a variety of flower seeds as he carried them. Pansies, snapdragons, poppies... all with their arms linked together shot out from the patch of ground at her feet. It was a glorious sight!


She squat on the ground and drew the charcoal stick out from her pocket. Then holding the canvas with one hand , she began sketching a selected spot with red poppies that stood out from the patch. The sun shone on the velvety petals lighting them to a bright vermilion hue. She doled out generous blobs of paints on to her palette and scooping it with a paint brush began to paint 'en plein air' with rapid brush strokes. She did not notice when the sun slid behind the trees, casting long shadows of trees all around. A sudden chill from the mid February breeze made her shiver bringing her engrossed self to the time that had flown by so quickly.


Wiping up the brushes with a dust cloth she wrapped up, and picking up the canvas carefully, made her way back to the studio. It was empty and resounding with an eerie quietness. Looking at her watch she realized that all the students must have left over an hour ago. Their realistic replicas of still life at the center of the room seemed comfortable sitting on their easels in their two dimensions.


She set up her canvas too. The painting looked quite different from others, with its subject and broken hues. It was incomplete. She wanted to stay and work over it but she knew it was getting dark outside, and she would be late by the time she reached home. She hoped that the paint would not dry up much overnight, so as to allow her to add impasto strokes on wet media for three dimensional sculptural rendering the next day. Closing the door behind her, she left...


In everything that she did , she had always aimed for expression, not plain rendering ; the power of her passion to translate with the strokes, leaving a sensuous residue of her creativity , not just to be seen , but to be felt. She aimed to express herself by her oneness with the act. Which was perhaps why she felt hollow and incomplete along with her work ; and an incomprehensible distress would settle upon her. It was then that she put on her jocular mask, since she had no answers for the inquisitive minds that probed her on such a state.


Eager to get back to her painting, she had decided to come in early the next morning. Much to her surprise, she saw the studio door ajar. Quietly and apprehensively, she ventured in and was surprised to see her professor, with a paint laden brush, sitting on her seat. Her eyes widened in horror when they fell upon the canvas. Bold strokes of green and vermilion cut through her own , and her painting looked different.


It looked good, but it was no longer her painting to call. She stood there open mouthed and silent. At that very instant, the professor looked up , then spoke.


" Your painting will be gifted to the VIP arriving from Brighton , next week."


" But sir..."


" I want you to be backstage, as you should be presenting your painting to him yourself. You have to be there ten minutes before the function starts" he spoke briskly as he left the studio.


She sat there for a good half an hour, a thousand thoughts running in her mind.


Her painting? Sure it was her painting , she had conceived it , it has been hers to cogitate and envisage. Her mental frame lifted and placed it in the position it was...had been...at least till this morning...it was tampered and mutilated now...almost raped, but still beautiful in its cold calculated reflowering deflowering. Tainted by a touch, almost impure in both content and intent...


But it was hers . Her subject , her creation. What did a few strokes here or there matter?...but they did...it was different, different different...it was...alien...could she call it theirs ? His and Hers...is equal to restrooms..toilet seats gutter... it was gone down the gutter...joint venture? teamwork? ...nobody's work , just theirs , they who had together painted the walls and ceilings of banquet halls and palaces and churches...heroes...unknown unnamed unsung...what did they call them here ?...poster painters... It was a poster... poster impostor... fake... it did matter... there was a world of difference between originals and fakes... but what would they call a transition? fakeoriginal or originalfake... which stroke was original... which stroke fake...both were original... so what would it be called... originaloriginal... hisandhers... neitherhisnorhers...

...theirs...


...who?


She did not go to the function. The professor presented the painting to the VIP.


"You were not there yesterday" he looked accusingly at her. " It was so careless of you. How could you have forgotten such an important event? I had to present your painting for you at the function. Its a shame."


"Whose painting?" She whispered...as if she sought an answer...


"What?"


" Nothing"....