for Magpie Tales, Writing

A Whiff of Vicissitude

Waking, Walking, Singing, in the Next Dimension? 1979 by Morris Graves

Frail and obedient,

that used to be me.

Silent, unquestioning,

always following.

But, when I took a sip

of the nectar dew on

one green stalk

that afternoon.

My little wings sliced the air,

my beak glistened against the sunset’s last rays.

I flew higher, faster.


Emotions bred actions

that I desire.

I turned selfish,

yet still frail.



I became,

with you.

*Written for the Magpie Tales

Prose Poetry

Magpie Mondays {A Couch Too Big For One}

Red couch. From Magpie Mondays.

The dame has been in this scenario for quite some time,

quite forlorn,

unbounded freedom,

mostly unaccompanied.

The space seems too vast for her fragility,

it eats her up,

too vexing,

breeds out a deafening monotony.

Casually, someone would sit for tea,

and she smiles,

elevated happiness,

and temporary highs.

In her mind, she grips his wrist,




But, she snaps back to reality,

he went

and sat

on another red couch.

And she casually brushed her way to the couch’s middle,

sipped her tea,

inhaled deeply,

and bit her tea-stained lip.

Prose Poetry


He was that stranger you wanted to know.

You kissed kismet sweetly when a part of his world was tangent to yours.

Then you hugged kismet hard enough when his world overlapped yours.

He’s that person who can make you forget your standards,

the one who can make you dive into a made-up pool of dream,

where you two can be free as the fishes on the ocean, and surface the waters after years to gasp for some air.

Then, he takes your hand and dive again.

He’s that somebody you would beautifully hold your breath for too long,

even though you know that you’d start to forget to breathe again.

My beautiful friend had this printed on a t-shirt. Gave me this as my birthday present.