for Magpie Tales, Writing

Magpie Mondays: A Disguised Blessing

photo by Agustin Berrocal


The old, cranky lawyer had knocked on his door,

the will, the testament of his half-brother has been probated.

Luxury cars and the Caribbean was on his mind,

Resigned he did from his current job,

for he believed a thousand bucks would be a penny after this day.

So off he drove to his brother’s mansion,

with the old, cranky lawyer as his companion.

He was led to this half-opened elegantly furnished door,

from the edges of which golden beams escaped.

He couldn’t contain the excitement that his heart carries

and rushed towards the light source.

He grabbed one egg and felt that something is quite not right.

The egg had little craters and weren’t fragile at all.

The old, cranky lawyer whispered,

“He said you loved french fries,” and he walked snickering,

“Don’t count your golden eggs before they hatch, my boy for they might not be eggs at all.”


**Written for the Magpie Tales

for Magpie Tales, Prose Poetry, Writing

Caprice by Santorini

Charleston Farmhouse Door

Hopping and skipping on uneven cobblestone paths

on this warm sunny day.

Watching the taverns dot the caldera of the island,

I gasp in the air filled with garlicky and organoic aroma.

Then I stopped for a moment to wrinkle my nose

for I wouldn’t want to eat lunch just yet,

I scraped off that layer of smell and inhaled the wet, salty taste of the sea,

and chuckled, thinking, Only dogs smell in layers, not humans.

Not sure as to where my feet would take me, I recollected my early morning’s memories

of the latest beach hopping that I had.

The last beach has the finest sand my feet has ever buried themselves in, and

I jumped and built sand castles only for the waves to wash them away.

I could always build another for I am a princess, 

my kingdom follows me wherever I go. 

That beach has become my favorite. Who would have thought dreadful things breed beauty?

Like what the volcanic eruptions did to my known sanctuary.

I opened my bag and brought out polaroids of the beaches that I’ve been to

and I sat, my flowing skirt ballooned halfway through my action.

As my floral bottom fell flat on the uneven pathway, I laid each polaroid carefully.

Red. Black. White. Cream. The colors were varied and each photo palette holds its own grace.

My nana used to tell me that the colors of the beaches on our place

depended on which geological layer is exposed.

A heart tug is what I felt for the black beach; I think it’s wickedly sophisticated,

however, I disliked its ability to absorb the majority of the heat that hits it.

I looked up and an appalling chagrin replaced my earlier carefree doldrums,

the black dead lock remains as it is, while its chromatic wall paint happily danced.

*Written for the Magpie Tales