Saccharine

The babbling brooks and the gaggling geese

flounce around while the sun bathes in glory.

Children squeal, their excitement infectious

as the adoring parents burst with pride and overflow with joy.

The baby's dimples and the colours of summer,

declarations of love floating on gentle breezes.

Entwined fingers, kites streaking across the skies,

ice cream dripping, littering sidewalks with happiness.

Sugary sweetness permeates, slowly steadily. Filling

the corners, soldering cynical cracks shut.

I need some coffee to give my senses respite.

Bitter, brewed, addictive realities.

I need the darkness and the aftertaste,

the empty paper cup to discard without care.

I need to be ignored at the coffee shop, I need reason to resent.

I need to pay in small change and watch

as the kid behind the counter grumbles.

Columbian dark roast. No pleasantries, no flirtatious smiles.

"Would you like some syrup in that?" the barista asks.

I chuckle as I walk out.

Discovery

Along the edges, with arms outstretched,
we're concentrating.
Traversing the concentric walkways of
perfectly peeled rinds,
we're descending into the depths
of his fruity fragrance.
It intoxicates; it controls.
Like blind men on a rope,
we follow him who leads.
And he leads us to the heart
of these tangerine dreams.

We discover this new world,
through orange, tinted glasses.
Everything has layers, and
texture and truth. We reach out
to touch. To feel. To know.
The exploration is punctuated
by moments of cognisance.
Moments when the solid haze we're in
is pierced by a stray word.
But these moments pass, and
the tangerine dream regains control.

We're awoken from this reverie by
the acerbic edge of reality.
The citric acid cuts through it all.
Clean strokes, no mistakes.
We were at the nadir, swimming
in sweetness spiced with tangy passion,
but now, we return. We take careless steps
in the hopes of falling off the edge,
to be immersed in the tangerine dreams
once more.

This one definitely needs a rewrite, but it works as is for the time being. A momentary return to the colour phase...

Second Helpings

In honor of Valentines day, a love story sans the mush. And the love...

She had it all planned.

First, she'd slip him a note in his morning newspaper.

'A surprise awaits you tonight, my darling. Hurry home. Love, A.'

He'd be excited by the prospect of an elaborately planned surprise, and he'd do exactly as the note said. During the day, she'd make herself all pretty- just for him. She'd spend hours in front of the mirror, fixing everything so that it was just the way he liked it. Her hair would be perfect, every strand in place, and it would smell like oranges in winter. He liked oranges.

She'd wear the inky blue dress she'd borrowed from Anna, positioning the slinky straps so that they'd slip off easily when the time came. And then she'd make him the perfect meal. They say oysters are an aphrodisiac...

She'd pack up the food and a bottle of 'Riesling from Alsace' in a dainty wicker basket and make her way over to his place. She'd even take a cab, lest the chilly February winds ruined her perfectly arranged auburn hair. She'd carefully step out of the cab, and then sneak in past the doorman. It didn't take much to distract him.

The elevator would ding, signalling her arrival to anyone who cared enough to listen. She would make her way over to his apartment, letting her heels sink into the plush green carpet. There was the small matter of getting into his apartment, but she'd figure something out in time. There was never a dearth of bobby-pins in her handbag, and they made it look rather easy in all the movies she'd watched with him.

Once she entered the apartment, she'd disconnect the phone. She'd then use her phone to call Anna's office; she knew exactly where she'd find his address book. She knew everything about both him and that Anna...

She'd then proceed to hide all the photographs of Anna and him, pushing them behind the oven and under the couch. She'd put up a picture, of him with her in his arms, on the wall right opposite the front door. She'd set up the dining table and then wait by the window, watching the cars whiz by on the street below.

He'd come home and be utterly shocked. He'd see all that she'd done for him and realise the error of his ways. He'd hate himself for the two years he'd lost out on. And then, he'd find her, waiting for him, and all would be well again.

Yes, he'd come back to her. She had it all planned.

When the Old Lady Bakes...Again

Revisiting the old lady who seemed to have a fondness for baking young men. Out of context, that sounds incredibly inappropriate; this is just a rewrite of a poem I put up a while ago. The focus has shifted a little and ambiguity has taken up residence in most of the stanzas. Yay.

This Sunday is as good a day
as any,
to whip up a miracle or two.
That's just what she'll do.
Yes, she'll give shape to that wonder-
and then, perhaps, knit a scarf.

Flipping through recipe cards,
cross-referenced and alphabetized,
she chooses her newest InstaCompanion® .
The granite counter-top glistens
in anticipation, while the wooden spoon
gets set for all the action.

A few aseptic techniques
and a pre-heated oven look on,
as the glorious intention is birthed.
In a special bowl,
of appropriate dimensions,
she nurtures the new-born idea.

Pinches of this and dashes of that.
Combat the blandness with a little intelligence.
Fondling the electric beater, she
lets the aroma of new life hang in the air.
Meanwhile, the wit, arrogance, and ideal jaw-line
are marinated in a tangy, hypnotic sauce.

Though she frowns upon superficiality,
appearances do matter.
Add some protein to the batter.
One and a half teaspoons of sincerity.
Then sieve in the charm
and a couple of splashes of inherited wealth.

Eugenics is all the craze these days...

To finish off, mix in an unwavering devotion
to the hand that created him.
And of course, before she forgets,
add good humour- to taste.
She would have garnished him
with her secret ingredient...

But only amateurs can afford to miss
the beginning of Jeopardy.

Happy Piggies

She named them Binky and Bubbles. It seemed cute at first, but those guinea pigs weren't impressed. I'd done nothing to lessen their embarrassment, so they were out to ruin me, one sleepless night at a time. During the day, when I worked, they were absolute darlings. Uncharacteristically quiet, one wouldn't suspect them of anything. And just when I'd consider taking a nap, they'd recommence the squeaking and the scratching.

I hated them.

My daughter, however, adored them. They were a present from her vengefully sadistic father, and she claimed they were happiest in her room. Normally I'd argue, but not this time. After the divorce, I figured she deserved some leniency, and if that meant I had to let those damn pigs ruin everything, then so be it.

The unhappy mommy was the least of anyone's worries. It was all about the happy child, and ultimately, the happy piggies.

(The title was a complete rip-off of Chittz's GTalk status message. but in my defense, she was being my...muse? :P More microfiction, by the way. This time, I'm down to 149 words. Oh. Yeah.)

Resale

The cool, bare floor failed to hold its own against the sunlight that streamed in through the open window. She paused momentarily to wipe her forehead before embracing the coarse material.

Her needle went in and out of the fabric, the frequency of its motion in phase with the leaky faucet. Her bare skin was chafed wherever it came in contact with the fabric, but she continued to sew. Her task was not trivial; these two edges were destined to be together. Her stitches had to be resilient, capable of withstanding anything.

She was making the merchant a new home. Every stitch mattered, if only to the grain merchant who lay dead beside her. He sold death in his sacks of produce, and now, she was returning the favour at prices nobody could beat.

She smiled, satisfied, as she knotted the end of the twine she'd been using to sew.

(This piece is exactly 150 words long; I wrote it with the intention of writing 'microfiction'. I realise I've come back to writing about mindless, meaningless murder all over again, but I can't help myself...)

Brothers in Arms

The title was lifted from the Nicholas Cage starrer 'Lord of War'. I wanted to use the Ukrainian phrase they use in the movie, but not only would that lend additional political implications to the piece, it would also seem fairly out of place in a poem written entirely in English. Anyway, here goes.

Forward we’ll march, and together, wage war.
Brandishing edges that reflect the menacing glow
of pending doom, we’ll avenge every loss. A few more
for good measure, and then
we’ll trudge on further through the sanguine mud;
leached with liquid souvenirs of life,
it births the bloodied memories
of every traitor and every martyr.

Decked in glory and armed with honour, we shall rise-
emerging victorious- imparting wisdom to those
who have been blindfolded by false promises of eternity.
Rescuing ignorant minds that see not the superiority
that coats our ways. Could our intentions be any nobler?
Fear not, oh brothers, for we have Faith. We have Justice.
We have Power on our side.

The Voice guides me as I guide you. Follow
and I will lead you to that battleground.
We are the means, mine brethren,
the ink that shall stain memories-
the colour of every word, thought and reality.
Do not question the Voice; trust is of the essence.
Believe, as I have, in altruism, in the purity of our ideals.
We must kill together, conquer side by side, and whisper
our truths so that they resound, echoing
with force. Enough to shatter the dying lights
those fools follow ignorantly.

Envoys of the true Faith. Purveyors of real justice.
Descendents of the Voice and its Power.
But first, and foremost,
we are brothers in arms. In the name of all
that we know to be right,
forward we shall march,
and together wage war.