I have had a chance to meet a bunch of awesome writers earlier this week. They are called resident writers and they meet every week on Monday to sit and write. This is a good place if you haven’t written in a long time to kick start your writing engine. During each session, one picks a topic (usually a few during the whole meeting) and writes a few lines on that within a fixed time frame.
Read some of my writings from this week’s meeting. If you’d like to know more about resident writers, please visit the resident writer’s website here.
Conversations with a Giant
Standing on top of a hill, scratching his back
Pulling out buggers from his nose,
Swatting flies with his other hand.
Not a welcome sight for this dwarf explorer,
Who came to meet the giant, the giant of the forest
Suddenly, there was a thunderous roar, a gust of wind
And a heavy thump on the ground
That threw the dwarf up in the air
A hundred feet off the ground,
For a million years of free fall.
In the last few seconds he saw his life flash by,
As he fell backwards onto the ground in a loud cry
All he ever wanted was an audience with the giant
And here he was, being killed by his fart.
Sailor Tunes
Riders of the storm sailed into the rough sea
A captain in his white sailor cap, and a crew full of toughened sea farers
There were days of peaceful winds but now there are thunderous storms
The galleys were filled with crewmen and deckhands,
With guns in their hands and cannon balls at the ready
Bellows sounded in the distant air
As the last of the enemy ships continued to fight,
In the storm and in the darkness
There was no respite from this attack as I see through the lens of my telescope
The thing about Poetry
Pieces of a jigsaw puzzle thrown up on the air,
Fallen pieces tied up in the fair,
Fair world of my imagination
My entanglements and my emancipation
The words push the sails of an imaginary mind ship
Blow, blow and blow does the wind
The wind from these beautiful words,
High and low, long and beautiful
Conjunctions and injunctions to my thoughts
They bring together,
These words and those things about poetry
An old man once told me in my dreams,
Those dreams, those ephemeral snapshots
That poetry is his soul, a time travelling vehicle of thoughts
That passes from mind to mind and moves from body to body
He said that every time his pen touched paper, a piece of his soul broke
Broke it did into a hurtful piece, lightening his burden but not for long.
It was a soul of his pain and his hunger.
Empty Vessels 