1312 Poetry#18 – The Last one.

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2030 Poetry#17 – Glass panes.

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I did not notice the fish tank in the background until much later when I was going through the photos we took that night and this was inadvertently caught in one corner. The absurdity initially did make me chuckle as I thought to myself what the fish must feel like stuck behind a glass pane and having to watch other dead fish day in and day out. Is it sad? Is it glad that no one’s killed it yet? However, the current scene in India with the back and forth strikes at the Line of control and the whole country praising war through memes on social media (So much 21st century in one sentence, amirite?), it got me thinking – We are all that fish silently watching other fish die from behind glass panes we so conveniently carry in our palms.

Fondue 07

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1922 Poetry#15.

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~ Transcript ~


Tipsy prose,
Dipped in rhyme,
Must all your verse end in vain?” 
A happy ending-
-needs no friend.
It’s poetry born tucked in bed.
An end in ache –
It only sleeps
rocked all night by my poem’s breeze.

~ fessonia

Lighthouse backdrop

1145 Poetry#14 – Love, Papa.

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~ Transcript ~


I watched you grow, on land, by my side.
With sand for feet, the sea for eyes, you’d say –
“As soon as I’m whole, I’ll conquer the tide.”
Lips curved with yours, neck nodded along,
Hands cradling the knot that held you at bay.

In a blink, you were ready, whole and taut.
Sails blew full, oars kissed the sea.
I whispered a prayer, let go your knot –
“Wary of the whirls, wary of the winds.”
“I know daddy, now please let me be?”

Can’t follow you through. Not made for that.
Rockaway my little boat. I’ll watch you roam.
Storm the ocean, plant your flag.
In case of need, those times of rotten luck,
Look above, I burn just to guide you home.

Love, 
Papa.

Photograph : Property of @luminosilhouette
Updated cover unfinished poem

1530 Poetry#13 – Unfinished.

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~ Transcription ~


To the house that was never built,

Had my eyes set fifty years to the morrow –
How the sun would dance on the front porch,
To the crooked treehouse in the backyard.
Cut the strongest of wood,
Called the bravest of men.
Seventeen weeks of drawing up plans,
set on canvas, set foot on the ground.
But I did not know the ground would shake.
How could I know the ground would shake?

 fessonia

Poetry Rain

2335 Poetry#12 – A rude interruption.

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~ Transcription ~


A Rude Interruption

Scaled the skies, a grey cloud.
Split my path, a solemn rock.

Welled from within, one thousand drops.
Fell to your skin, home at last.

∈ fessonia

1600 Poetry#11 – Closure

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0443 Poetry#10 – That one night…

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1330 Poetry#9 – ‘Ma’gic

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Fondue 06 – Stay.

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2339 Poetry#8 – Draft Twenty.

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0312 Poetry#7 – Trial & Error.

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Fondue 05 – Oh, My Songbird…

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1148 Poetry#6 – Purgatory

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