20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


4 Comments

Birthday Wish

It’s the lonely old man’s birthday.

He remembers his 10th birthday, 60 years ago, when he celebrated it with friends, parents, and boxes of water guns.

He remembers his 30th birthday, 40 years ago, when he celebrated it with partners, mistresses and wads of cash.

He remembers his 50th birthday, 20 years ago, when he celebrated it with children, grandchildren and bottles of champagne.

Today he celebrates his 70th birthday with a wooden table, a wooden chair, and four empty walls.

His mind is of anticipation. A wooden box, a wooden dais, a small white floral wreath.

 

 

c Sorrows in a Serenade


Ghosts

Hi guys! This was written as an entry for the Trifextra Writing Challenge at http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2012/12/trifextra-week-forty-five.html! If you like if please take the time to vote for me (it’s community judged), really appreciate it! (my link is Sorrows In A Serenade). Thanks! :)

 

Ghosts of boxy apartment

walls wail watching

soul after soul fall; fail

spectacularly –

clean, crisp sheets tugged

up by cold, clammy fingers of hell,

smothering and blinding.

Light succumbs, darkness wins.

Ghosts wail.

 

 


Hollow

finally back after a long uncomfortable absence, I hate not posting regularly :(

hollow eyes -
window to
hollow soul.
rainbows of youth
faded, dull grey hues
plague cloudy skies.
winged dreams fall
battered, bashed, shattered, torn.
muted screams heard –
from the aching
gnawing inside.
they cling onto shreds of
life


2 Comments

Bridges

I walk along the rivers
Which sources lie between
The pale white clouds in the sky
Which ends anywhere
Its tail a snaking wisp of smoke

I want to cross
The rickety wooden bridge
To the other side,
An uncharted mysterious terrain where
Strangeness is subjective.

January, and with it comes new courage,
New light,
New heart.
I finally cross it.
The raging rapids conquered
Connections, bold
And strong.

 

www.sorrowsinaserenade.wordpress.com


1 Comment

Song of the Star

Dear children,

I am the star -
No, not the enchanting, twinkling stars
In the dark night sky

Those, are for dreamers.

I am the star -
Glittering, alluring
The lamp to your future.

I am the brightest.

Come to me, dear children.
Into my world – your world – of A-Stars.

There are only stars, and the
Occasional
Shooting star.

There are no rainbows here for you to chase,
No fruitless quests for that pot of gold.
Child,
those, are for dreamers.

Join me in my song,
The chant of many -
Star, star, star.
A perfect, melodious harmony
Trembling with desire. Perfection. Rings in our ears.

Come to me, dear children.

I am the star that you need.

Not the twinkling stars in the night sky -
They are blind and dull.
Those,
Are for dreamers.

www.sorrowsinaserenade.wordpress.com


The Photocopy Machine

Green glow consumes the person.

Churning, whirring,
White papers with black dots, white papers with black dots, white papers with black dots
Again.
The same blots on the same purity.

Hours and hours and hours. Again.

White blouse. Black skirt. White nails.
Permed black hair. White ring. Black boots.

Hello,

How do you do?

Please pay,
$x for one pristine replication.

www.sorrowsinaserenade.wordpress.com


1 Comment

other voices

Sometimes I
admire the
moon for it
cannot match
the sun’s glory
so it finds
it’s own patch
of sky to
brighten.

Sometimes I
admire the
nightingale
for it is drowned
out in the shrilly
shouts of other
fowls so it
finds its own
silence to
liven.

Sometimes I
strive for the
sun yet I
can’t reach it,
so I aim for
the twinkling
stars instead.

Somewhere
over the rainbow
the colour black
is weeping,
but then she
realizes the
mysterious beauty
of the night.


Winter’s Nocturnes – A Sestina

He sits down.

Melodies unfurl with a twitch, a light trill,
And the man leans back, savouring every note
Cloaked in black, and stained with tears,
Winter’s gifts a forgotten sight. Under the stars,
He bows his head, straightens his back, and the haunting
Begins. He slams on the piano keys, sorrow a dark cloud.

He remembers lying down, watching the clouds,
He remembers the chirping birds’ magnificent trill,
He remembers her – her bright green eyes haunting
His own. Her hand, knotted
With his. He remembers lying down, watching the stars
As each twinkled, then faded, merely a tiny tear.

Yet her soulless body besieged his mind, tattered and torn.
Each passing bar, a doubtful cloud.
He sees not the stars.
He hears not the trill.
But only senses the funeral of the notes.
Like death angels chanting, dancing, haunting.

He plays to hunt
Her spirit, to guide her to fill the tear
In his heart. Each note
Forms her silhouette, dimly glowing against the black clouds,
Against the wintry mist. She smiles at each familiar trill,
Her eyes are gold, like the stars.

The music makes the fair moon and stars
Weep, for its haunting
Siren beseeches attention. Hark! Music flows like a rill,
As his fingers dance over the piano. Too abruptly, it stops. The air tears.
He hovers on the piano, like a cloud,
Contemplating. contemplating. contemplating. Too soon the notes

stop

for your reference:
Word 1: trill
Word 2: note
Word 3: tear
Word 4: star
Word 5: haunt
Word 6: cloud


2 Comments

A Broken Umbrella

We’ll dance a waltz in the rain.
Let
the twirling raindrops breeze past us
And the lovely patters sing.

We’ll grow our roses in the rain.
Let
the soothing winds fondle our creation
And blooming petals rise.

We’ll spin our umbrellas in the rain.
Let
the vibrant colours splash the blue
And the silent promise ring –

Our love flows like the rain
A shower of wealth
Sparkles of effervescence

And the cold, cloying tang of pain.


Fishermen’s Song

Gnarling fury,
Menacing wrath!

From Poseidon’s clutches
Deliver thy torn sail!

Warping whirlpool,
Growling gale!

Hear thy cry,
Wailing screams
Echoing – ing.

Winter’s splash
Strikes cold.

We
Await
The
Coming
Of
The
Peace

like it? I appreciate demand constructive criticism! >:)


2 Comments

A Meal.

Shaking hands prepared this meal,
Shaking hands finish this meal.

Mother and Daughter
Eat in hushed silence
Mother and Daughter
A suspense, turbulent.

Too quickly,
Daughter finishes her meal.
Too quickly,
Daughter leaves to another world

Too slowly,
Mother is left behind

A table littered with rice grains.
A clang of a spoon clattering on the floor.
Mother groans
Painfully picking it up.

With an empty chair,
Forever reserved

www.sorrowsinaserenade.wordpress.com


Fish.

Eyes turn to stare
At the new fish on the street

Dirty brown, ragged, dusty, filthy.
A pure-bred,
A perfect addition to their collection
In the tank.

Joining the ranks of four others,
A school, lined up in neat row.
Body after body after body after body after body
Resting on their tails – fish have no legs.

More eyes stare.

Their mouths open and close – but no one hears.
Fish make no noise.

Their eyes plead as yet another cent drops, more, more, they cry! – but
Fish have no choice.

Their scales flinch as a stray coin hits them – but no one cares.
Fish have no voice.

The water engulfs them,
Hundred pairs of huge eyes are magnified
Inspecting the fish.

A fish bubbles – his final one -
The reverie breaks, the other fish scatter,
And the people walk away to their lunches in fancy restaurants
Fish and chips, nicely buttered.


2 Comments

Alley – A Sestina

apologies for not updating for very long! Lots of projects and schoolwork, but the busiest period hasn’t even arrived yet! Really very sorry for my lack of discipline >< anyway hope you like this! A sestina, on how we all too often lose our way through the treacherous territory of gold and diamonds. Hope you like it, and appreciate the comments!

In the alley, I meet the Spirit
The maiden of the Fair
Night, shrouded in mist.
Claiming lives
From clutches of play
To join her in the fog

I cease to wonder what lies beyond the Fog
Do not dream, says the Spirit
No amount of prayer
Will save you. Life is not fair!
You must fight for your Life -
But wait! I spot something amiss

I walk side by side with her, mystified
Seeing people, chained in fog
Devoid of Life
Serving the spirit with their own
Never seeing daylight that’s so fair
Never seeing the fun and joy of play.

No prayer
Can help those lost in mist
Entrapped in their own fair
world of gold and diamonds and mirrors that fog
Up, haunted by the cold Spirit,
They live, but do not live

Oh, they think their Life
Is meaningful, is wonderful – but pray
tell, what wonder comes of enslavement to the Spirit?
An eternal confinement awaits, tricked by gold’s mystery
And logic denied by a fog
of details and questions, but no answers. They remember not of going to a Fair

Nor experiencing sunset so fair
No – they remember not of their past joy, but of their lives’
Golden shine. They see not the Fog
They speak no prayer
for escape. They see no mystery.
For there is the Spirit.

I emerge from the horrors of the alley, from the Spirit of the Fair Night’s play.
I have not lost my way, my life is guided by the child’s shadow, not hidden by mist
Or fog, but in the light, kindling my fiery spirit.

 

(image credits http://fatherdaughtertalk.blogspot.sg/)


2 Comments

Of sunsets and swings – a sestina

The subtle glimmers of first light
Begin their charming
Magic on the green grass where swings Lie
The ancient encasement dropped
And burdened swings slowly bow
Then rise

Yet the swing with its rose
It couldnt outmatch the light
Slashing through the trees’ bow
No soul could it charm
For even as rain drops
The lifeless swings lay.

The lifeless swings lie
To themselves, they cannot beat the sunrise
Nor the golden sunrays dripping
From the sky. The swings’ own Light -
Merely a glint of a bracelet charm
Flashing just as an arrow leaves a bow

The swings threaten to bow
For it tells itself, lie, lie, lie -
As no charm
Could get the swing to rise
Like a new arising light

I hear a leaky tap – drip
drip.
The tears of the swings. It bows
Down to demands of the light
And resolves itself to lie
Forever. With a dead rose
The swing has lost his charm

But when night comes, the swing is charming
For when the curtains of light drop
The darkness unfolds. Then swings’ glow rises
Its now that it takes its final bow
The swing creeps into where shadows of the night lie
It has found its Light.

No more charming the day, for the bowl
Of sorrow is too great too drop – the sun does not lie.
Night, the swing rises. The night, the swing lights.

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