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DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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random thought

Good Ol’ Times

owl_and_the_pussycat__edward_lear_by_pseudooctopus-d4rpc7f
Illustration by Pseudooctopus

I used to think real-life love stories were as easy as the owl and the pussycat’s. I used to think that a song and a guitar could make it last. That a dance by the light of the moon is enough. But he is no owl, nor I was a cat. We were two grown-ups who lost our foolishness. Who stopped believing in the magic of the stars. Who stopped yearning for a pea-green boat by the shore. Who stopped walking hand in hand. Ours is the real life and theirs was a fairytale. We were no longer naive. We had too much reasons in between. It is sad but it is true.

The moon remembers
Good ol’ times of make-believe
With a woeful sigh
MS


In response to dVerse’s Monday Haibun: Fukuroo–Who? Who? Who? hosted by Victoria.

My earliest fascination of owls started in grade school when we were asked to reenact Edward Lear’s The Owl and the Pussy-Cat. Looking at it now, it seems to be a nonsense poem but, back then, it was sweet love story for the little me. ❤

Ah, how time changed love and our idea of love. 

Head over here to join the fun!

dverse

Exes and Fires

boy, cigarette, hand, smoke, ∞

Exes and Fires

I looked at you through the dissipating smoke. Your eyes have turned gray with age but the hint of smile never left them. As nostalgia sat between us, I wondered in silence why we didn’t last. What went wrong?

I thought of the day we decided to call it quits. There was no shouting in the room, just a sigh. A deep breath that freed us from the shackles of a failing relationship. We knew it was coming. The end was long overdue.

Your mouth curved into a smile as you stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray. You probably can read my mind. You always did. So I threw the question out and heard your answer that mirrored my own: “We were each other’s fire.”

Two flickering sparks
Colliding into a fire
On a moonlit night

Image Source: Favim


In response to dVerse’s Poetics: The End hosted by Paul Scribbles.

This evening I want you to think about ‘THE END.’ What does that phrase mean for you ? The end of life as we know it? The end of the road? The end of a relationship? The end of a job? The end of the poem? The end of the beginning? The beginning of the end? The possibilities are END-less 😉

Head over here to join the fun!

dverse

The Sky is Blue, Always Is

sky

I read hundreds were dead today. Another airstrike was launched; another bomb exploded. Another life on death row; another AIDS victim. Tears were shed as blood smeared the earth yet the sky is blue. Even with the hovering depression, frustration and obliteration, it remains blue. No matter how many times it witnessed death and conflict, heard cries of anguish and utter distress, the horizon is a never-ending blue. It never faded into gray. Why is that? I looked at the cerulean sky and found the glorious sun smiling at me. The sun shined brightly as if saying that all these were just passing clouds—they come and they go. On most days clouds peppered the sky, on some days they filled it. But it never lasted, none of the clouds did. And in the curtain call, as the day faded into night, I succumbed to gloom. I looked up, anticipating the darkness that mirrored this world, only to find a star speckled night sky. The moon winked and said, “Have a little faith, child.”

Weary— my eyes closed
I woke up to a blue sky
Smiling, faith revived

© 2016 Maria. All Rights Reserved.


In response to dVerse’s Tuesday Poetics: Breathing in Blue

Tending the bar for Poet’s Pub today is De who’s back fresh from Lake Tahoe. Check out her gorgeous piece, A thousand shards of cobalt glass.😉

P.S. I guess I’m on a haibun rampage this week for dVerse. Will try to flex  my fingers for some lines and rhymes next time. 😉

Head over here to join the fun:

dverse

Ashamed

tumblr_ntc5qb0fpw1upzbqvo1_500
Painting by Johnny Morant


Bathed in humiliation, her soul’s tired.


In response to Sometimes Stellar Storyteller Six Word Story Challenge: Ashamed

sssmain1

Ghosts

Day 3
Artwork by Tu Hongtao

Ghosts no longer live

In haunted houses

And peepal trees

No, they no longer reside

In abandoned buildings

And eerie streets

Ghosts now live within me

In a memory

A nightmare in my sleep

And how dire it is

To be haunted at night

By someone

Who’s still alive


 

In response to Writing 101: Poetry

Day 3: Sleep

For Day 3, Rohit Pandey (aka R ‘I’ P) offers us a prompt on a theme we all care about: Sleep.

Sleep: a world where our thoughts rule.

A place where reality is overshadowed by dreams. A time when we transport our soul from the real world to the virtual. For some, the hours we spend asleep, alone and in peace, are the best of the entire day; for others, whether haunted by nightmares or unable to fall asleep in the first place, not so much.

It’s time to think deeply about sleep. Dive into the pool of night and let whatever it is you find there take poetic form. (I hope this prompt doesn’t make an insomniac out of you!)

 

A playful veil

Day 2
© zastavki.com

I stared at the girl in a little black dress

She stood looking youthful and classy

I recognized her and her bright auburn hair

Those red-tinted lips speaks of fierce

Her eyes fixed on mine and then I realized

She was not a stranger, she was me

From rags to riches, grief to bliss

She made through it all, she should be happy

But her smile is a shroud

To the depths of her misery

To the pits of agony,

A playful veil

For she may have gained the rest of the world

But in meaning and purpose, she failed.


In response to Writing 101: Poetry

Day 2: Reflections

Prompt 2 is a courtesy of Melinda Kucsera.

On water, in puddles, in glass, in mirrors – reflections can clarify, blur reality, or fracture it altogether. They can serve up surreal images or a perspective that’s unexpected. Whether it’s street light-reflected raindrops or the sky distorted in a half-melted patch of ice, reflections are nature’s funhouse mirrors.

Reflections are not limited to non-living objects. Our bodies reflect our internal health and our clothes reflect our lifestyle. We also reflect internally upon our world, our physical state, or on ideas bouncing around inside our skulls.

Clear or distorted, in your poem today tell us something about the reflections you see — in the world or in yourself.

The Letter

FFfAW 10

The first hint of sunlight peeked through the clouds and pierces through her window curtains. Julie pulled the covers up over her head, rolled over in one direction and then rolled back again— aching for sleep to consume her but failed.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” whispered a soft voice on her ears before she felt a kiss on her cheeks.

Her heart throbbed with excitement and delight as she forced her eyes to open, finding herself alone in the room. Just an imagination, she thought. She rose from her bed and looked out from the bedroom window, only to find the world just as it is: pedestrians walking by and people speaking loudly over croissant and espresso in sync to a one fine morning.

“You are so unfair,” she sullenly said as she tiptoed back to her bed and dove under the covers. She lay quiet and still for several minutes until the sound of her sobs drifted in the air as she curled to her husband’s last letter. “Why do you have to go first?”

Word Count: 175
Continue reading “The Letter”

Doubt

In response to Sometimes Stellar Storyteller Six Word Story Challenge.

6WS #9
© anonymous

He was too close— but quit.

What’s Next?

 

Photo credits: Ching Falcone

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In a world full of doubt and uncertainty,
Where a simple mistake could lead to misery,
Could there be a place for peace and love–
A calm, sweet place for an innocent heart?

What happens today is a memory of tomorrow,
Today’s memories that could not be borrowed,
What’s left is for us to cherish this moment,
And make happiness the core instead of lament.

There comes a time when we’ll ask- what’s next?
After all the troubles and life’s chain of vex.
When our tomorrow seems unsure and vague,
Wishing for a crystal ball to see what’s at stake.

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