A children's story.

I have a story up on an online children's site in North India. It's based on a childhood experience which I turned into a tale.
If you feel like a read, please click on: My Terribly Pink Fish

A children's story.

I have a story up on an online children's site in North India. It's based on a childhood experience which I turned into a tale.
If you feel like a read, please click on: My Terribly Pink Fish

A children's story.

I have a story up on an online children's site in North India. It's based on a childhood experience which I turned into a tale.
If you feel like a read, please click on: My Terribly Pink Fish

Mirrors

by Susan Abraham

Look at the shape of your face
from what it was in the past
and to how it is now
today.
See the color of your spirit
that shades the light of the
dawn.
To shadows that once
crayoned your dusk, then
like an angel's
truth, you will know what
you have become.

'The Japanese Tattoo' from Tallulah

Mirrors

by Susan Abraham

Look at the shape of your face
from what it was in the past
and to how it is now
today.
See the color of your spirit
that shades the light of the
dawn.
To shadows that once
crayoned your dusk, then
like an angel's
truth, you will know what
you have become.

'The Japanese Tattoo' from Tallulah

Mirrors

by Susan Abraham

Look at the shape of your face
from what it was in the past
and to how it is now
today.
See the color of your spirit
that shades the light of the
dawn.
To shadows that once
crayoned your dusk, then
like an angel's
truth, you will know what
you have become.

'The Japanese Tattoo' from Tallulah

Hello again,

I'm feeling lots better today. I'm surprised I didn't stay melancholy for too long. I think I've learnt life's lessons well. When you've gone through painful times and been suddenly freed of it, you know that every subsequent moment is precious. And my survivial power is just too strong, in any case.

Also, I do feel upbeat about my future.

In addition to all that, your words helped tremendously.

I just wanted to say thank you for the moment, for all the lovely comments, underneath yesterday's entry which reflected your personalities and which I found to be thoughtful and inspirational. I really didn't expect any of that. And to Wolfbaby, Addy, Anna & The Wandering Author even for making the time to catch up on the posts you missed.

I feel really humbled when you all do this.

This is not false modesty but I used to think that I could go away tomorrow and I wouldn't be missed.

This is going to sound really silly but I haven't yet bought a new adapter for my laptop and am not comfortable writing properly in cyhercafes. So I wasn't able to visit everyone today. I've left the poetry pages for tomorrow. I really need to think about all your posts when I visit.

I just didn't want to get into a quandry where my writing craft would be paralysed.

Anyway, I think I survived that too.

I love you all, my friends on my blogroll and I'll visit soon oh and also, speak to you soon.

Hello again,

I'm feeling lots better today. I'm surprised I didn't stay melancholy for too long. I think I've learnt life's lessons well. When you've gone through painful times and been suddenly freed of it, you know that every subsequent moment is precious. And my survivial power is just too strong, in any case.

Also, I do feel upbeat about my future.

In addition to all that, your words helped tremendously.

I just wanted to say thank you for the moment, for all the lovely comments, underneath yesterday's entry which reflected your personalities and which I found to be thoughtful and inspirational. I really didn't expect any of that. And to Wolfbaby, Addy, Anna & The Wandering Author even for making the time to catch up on the posts you missed.

I feel really humbled when you all do this.

This is not false modesty but I used to think that I could go away tomorrow and I wouldn't be missed.

This is going to sound really silly but I haven't yet bought a new adapter for my laptop and am not comfortable writing properly in cyhercafes. So I wasn't able to visit everyone today. I've left the poetry pages for tomorrow. I really need to think about all your posts when I visit.

I just didn't want to get into a quandry where my writing craft would be paralysed.

Anyway, I think I survived that too.

I love you all, my friends on my blogroll and I'll visit soon oh and also, speak to you soon.

Hello again,

I'm feeling lots better today. I'm surprised I didn't stay melancholy for too long. I think I've learnt life's lessons well. When you've gone through painful times and been suddenly freed of it, you know that every subsequent moment is precious. And my survivial power is just too strong, in any case.

Also, I do feel upbeat about my future.

In addition to all that, your words helped tremendously.

I just wanted to say thank you for the moment, for all the lovely comments, underneath yesterday's entry which reflected your personalities and which I found to be thoughtful and inspirational. I really didn't expect any of that. And to Wolfbaby, Addy, Anna & The Wandering Author even for making the time to catch up on the posts you missed.

I feel really humbled when you all do this.

This is not false modesty but I used to think that I could go away tomorrow and I wouldn't be missed.

This is going to sound really silly but I haven't yet bought a new adapter for my laptop and am not comfortable writing properly in cyhercafes. So I wasn't able to visit everyone today. I've left the poetry pages for tomorrow. I really need to think about all your posts when I visit.

I just didn't want to get into a quandry where my writing craft would be paralysed.

Anyway, I think I survived that too.

I love you all, my friends on my blogroll and I'll visit soon oh and also, speak to you soon.

Today

is not a good time for me.

Blogger gives me numerous headaches.

Sometimes, its the comments box otherwise, not being able to post or save something.

My adapter for the wireless broadband on my laptop broke yesterday.

I have to go to Singapore for a couple of days.

I have to pack.

I am feeling down about a few things from the past.

I have to find a way to regain my exuberance before I get dragged down once more to somewhere, where I can no longer write.

(Is that the right way to say it all? Oh well...)

Today

is not a good time for me.

Blogger gives me numerous headaches.

Sometimes, its the comments box otherwise, not being able to post or save something.

My adapter for the wireless broadband on my laptop broke yesterday.

I have to go to Singapore for a couple of days.

I have to pack.

I am feeling down about a few things from the past.

I have to find a way to regain my exuberance before I get dragged down once more to somewhere, where I can no longer write.

(Is that the right way to say it all? Oh well...)

Today

is not a good time for me.

Blogger gives me numerous headaches.

Sometimes, its the comments box otherwise, not being able to post or save something.

My adapter for the wireless broadband on my laptop broke yesterday.

I have to go to Singapore for a couple of days.

I have to pack.

I am feeling down about a few things from the past.

I have to find a way to regain my exuberance before I get dragged down once more to somewhere, where I can no longer write.

(Is that the right way to say it all? Oh well...)

Just thoughts

Yesterday, a novel I had written, completed and stowed away came back to look for me, to call me.
I really was going to abandon it. I wrote it on the last leg of my stay in England - when the horrific affair of the stalking had lessened and the rest of it, I finished in Malaysia. Then I experimented with different stories, got completely mixed-up with my versatality and forgot all about it.
But yesterday when I was filled with melancholy, I thought once more of this serious piece of literary fiction where I had boldly experimented with some form of nudity and subtle eroticism but it was still serious literary fiction.
It came back to haunt and call me. And I realised that I missed it like a deep heartache.
I mean, just imagine an Asian writer writing a story like this to start with. Picture the consternation that I would face if it ever got published. Still, unlike my many fellow-writers, a multi-cultural identity complete with folklore and other emigration issues appear to be the last thing on my mind.
I really thought nobody would look twice at it, publish it, read it, buy it etc. I am often my own worst enemy.
But I thought all day of my female protaganist. She has a similiar disconcerting disturbing madness as what you've read on my other fiction-posts.
Suddenly, I missed her like anything. She became my best friend. It's my first real manuscript. I realised I really cared about this character, June, named after the month I was born. That when I wrote her story, there was some kind of surreal light around me that moved away from bad times into a haloed sparkle
It was all still there, the magic, the essence and the innocence.
I didn't cringe at all,
Of course, all my blog exercises have made my writing a lot crisper, sharper and shrewder.
But nothing that cannot be remedied.
I can still capture it as an obsessive memory. Don't know. Don't know. So many things. I could do. I could try.
I have been thinking of June all day. She is my solid creation after all and no one can take her away.


This is one of the milder versions:

It was to be one of our last times together. But you kept your secret well.

Where are your arms now, Simon? Where is my trampoline quilted with kisses,

and embrace? Were you not my divine one? My ruling prince of bliss with

sacred jewels to seal a vow of faithfulness. The gentleman who took me on imaginary

pursuits for a dance in the stars and to tea with the queen. I thought we would always

be an integral part of each other but when you left on that cold, December day, you

took away the dance of my skin and tore at the swing of its youth.

When then, did I not think of a sinking ship swaying on its last hinges; a woman

drunk on wine and Dutch courage?

But my fleeting sorrow had failed to signal a thunderclap and undo a cloudburst

of tears; my heart to catch its flood.

I remember still, sitting in a dignified fashion at the Harrod tearooms in London, with an Asian author friend who had been well and truly published on the fiction mythology platform. She was a darling. I loved her. She was my friend.
I had taken my careless drafts to show her.
"My God, you can't send this out, Susan." Standard is high yes, but all this gushing and rambling. I fear June may be seen as a brazen hussy, a vixen...a prostitute even. No one will take you seriously."

"Rubbish," I had concluded happily and bit into my scone with a grin.

Just thoughts

Yesterday, a novel I had written, completed and stowed away came back to look for me, to call me.
I really was going to abandon it. I wrote it on the last leg of my stay in England - when the horrific affair of the stalking had lessened and the rest of it, I finished in Malaysia. Then I experimented with different stories, got completely mixed-up with my versatality and forgot all about it.
But yesterday when I was filled with melancholy, I thought once more of this serious piece of literary fiction where I had boldly experimented with some form of nudity and subtle eroticism but it was still serious literary fiction.
It came back to haunt and call me. And I realised that I missed it like a deep heartache.
I mean, just imagine an Asian writer writing a story like this to start with. Picture the consternation that I would face if it ever got published. Still, unlike my many fellow-writers, a multi-cultural identity complete with folklore and other emigration issues appear to be the last thing on my mind.
I really thought nobody would look twice at it, publish it, read it, buy it etc. I am often my own worst enemy.
But I thought all day of my female protaganist. She has a similiar disconcerting disturbing madness as what you've read on my other fiction-posts.
Suddenly, I missed her like anything. She became my best friend. It's my first real manuscript. I realised I really cared about this character, June, named after the month I was born. That when I wrote her story, there was some kind of surreal light around me that moved away from bad times into a haloed sparkle
It was all still there, the magic, the essence and the innocence.
I didn't cringe at all,
Of course, all my blog exercises have made my writing a lot crisper, sharper and shrewder.
But nothing that cannot be remedied.
I can still capture it as an obsessive memory. Don't know. Don't know. So many things. I could do. I could try.
I have been thinking of June all day. She is my solid creation after all and no one can take her away.


This is one of the milder versions:

It was to be one of our last times together. But you kept your secret well.

Where are your arms now, Simon? Where is my trampoline quilted with kisses,

and embrace? Were you not my divine one? My ruling prince of bliss with

sacred jewels to seal a vow of faithfulness. The gentleman who took me on imaginary

pursuits for a dance in the stars and to tea with the queen. I thought we would always

be an integral part of each other but when you left on that cold, December day, you

took away the dance of my skin and tore at the swing of its youth.

When then, did I not think of a sinking ship swaying on its last hinges; a woman

drunk on wine and Dutch courage?

But my fleeting sorrow had failed to signal a thunderclap and undo a cloudburst

of tears; my heart to catch its flood.

I remember still, sitting in a dignified fashion at the Harrod tearooms in London, with an Asian author friend who had been well and truly published on the fiction mythology platform. She was a darling. I loved her. She was my friend.
I had taken my careless drafts to show her.
"My God, you can't send this out, Susan." Standard is high yes, but all this gushing and rambling. I fear June may be seen as a brazen hussy, a vixen...a prostitute even. No one will take you seriously."

"Rubbish," I had concluded happily and bit into my scone with a grin.

Just thoughts

Yesterday, a novel I had written, completed and stowed away came back to look for me, to call me.
I really was going to abandon it. I wrote it on the last leg of my stay in England - when the horrific affair of the stalking had lessened and the rest of it, I finished in Malaysia. Then I experimented with different stories, got completely mixed-up with my versatality and forgot all about it.
But yesterday when I was filled with melancholy, I thought once more of this serious piece of literary fiction where I had boldly experimented with some form of nudity and subtle eroticism but it was still serious literary fiction.
It came back to haunt and call me. And I realised that I missed it like a deep heartache.
I mean, just imagine an Asian writer writing a story like this to start with. Picture the consternation that I would face if it ever got published. Still, unlike my many fellow-writers, a multi-cultural identity complete with folklore and other emigration issues appear to be the last thing on my mind.
I really thought nobody would look twice at it, publish it, read it, buy it etc. I am often my own worst enemy.
But I thought all day of my female protaganist. She has a similiar disconcerting disturbing madness as what you've read on my other fiction-posts.
Suddenly, I missed her like anything. She became my best friend. It's my first real manuscript. I realised I really cared about this character, June, named after the month I was born. That when I wrote her story, there was some kind of surreal light around me that moved away from bad times into a haloed sparkle
It was all still there, the magic, the essence and the innocence.
I didn't cringe at all,
Of course, all my blog exercises have made my writing a lot crisper, sharper and shrewder.
But nothing that cannot be remedied.
I can still capture it as an obsessive memory. Don't know. Don't know. So many things. I could do. I could try.
I have been thinking of June all day. She is my solid creation after all and no one can take her away.


This is one of the milder versions:

It was to be one of our last times together. But you kept your secret well.

Where are your arms now, Simon? Where is my trampoline quilted with kisses,

and embrace? Were you not my divine one? My ruling prince of bliss with

sacred jewels to seal a vow of faithfulness. The gentleman who took me on imaginary

pursuits for a dance in the stars and to tea with the queen. I thought we would always

be an integral part of each other but when you left on that cold, December day, you

took away the dance of my skin and tore at the swing of its youth.

When then, did I not think of a sinking ship swaying on its last hinges; a woman

drunk on wine and Dutch courage?

But my fleeting sorrow had failed to signal a thunderclap and undo a cloudburst

of tears; my heart to catch its flood.

I remember still, sitting in a dignified fashion at the Harrod tearooms in London, with an Asian author friend who had been well and truly published on the fiction mythology platform. She was a darling. I loved her. She was my friend.
I had taken my careless drafts to show her.
"My God, you can't send this out, Susan." Standard is high yes, but all this gushing and rambling. I fear June may be seen as a brazen hussy, a vixen...a prostitute even. No one will take you seriously."

"Rubbish," I had concluded happily and bit into my scone with a grin.

A slice of fiction from a larger body of work.

by Susan Abraham

By the light of the sunset, we relish in this watchful setting. Lying together in bed with legs clumsily entwined, we clutch hands in a mad desperation like anxious but obedient twins awaiting the maternal goodnight kiss.

We talk in low intimate tones.

You whisper softly into my ear, reciting my name like a passionate guitar strum while pulling at my heartstrings without warning, and dropping hymns into the soft wounded core of my being. You will me not to cry while holding my face tightly within yours, as I sob uncontrollably feeling quite beside myself.

You hand me a tissue.

This simple act makes me forget my tears and practised hysterics. Once, in a quiet growl under your breath, you warned me to stop or you would slap me hard. Another time, you screamed while standing close to my face and yet another, shaking me until I turned a cold blue. At the height of its most painful; was the time when you abdandoned me for a week until you felt quite rightly, that I "had come to my senses."

Then in my heart, I had fallen victim to the rain, ice and cold.

And all the time, you watched me from the window, your face never leaving mine as you lit cigarette after cigarette, while emblazoned in your anger like a notorious Greek statue.

But now, seeming unable to exercise that caution, you embrace the tireless role of the compassionate prophet.

You stroke the unruly strands of my long hair and reassure me that everything will be alright.

Unconvinced, I stare upwards at the ceiling.

My head appears encased in stone as I lie immovable. You pretend not to mind as you engagingly brush away the loose curls until you can see my breasts again.

Then you touch the heavy flesh of me, commanding them to rest slightly against your face. You tickle my palms and I smile. You trace the faint outline of my lips with your fingers and follow your imaginary lines all the way up my eyes. You pretend to write something on my cheeks. You want to paint me, you say, you want to crayon my soul.

Two artists wanted to paint me once. Yes, this is all true.

One commanded a hasty charcoal sketch as I sat to dinner at a little roadside stall in Kuala Lumpur. Yes, of all the places too. I was embarassed as a crowd quickly gathered.

"Please..." he pleaded as I got up to leave. I stared, a little hesitant. He looked unkept and slightly nervous. Amused onlookers watched curiously willing me to a dare. I sat with a friend who appeared faintly envious. Slowly, I sunk once more into my chair while cradling my thoughts with clumsy astonishment.

Another time someone asked if he could paint me. I knew this artist and I had strolled past his gallery. He was often in the news and featured in credit card magazines. That kind of thing. He came running out. I would have to pay a fee, he added apologetically but it wasn't always that he wanted to capture faces on canvas. I would be so pleased, he promised as a last resort.

Now, I continue to lie still without moving. I am thrilled, intrigued and at the same time, terribly sad. You smile; all the time watching and waiting for a reprive. We move into a closer alcove; covering every gap of our bodies with skin that stretches and glues us together all the way into eternity.

We have become quite nicely now, Siamese twins, head on head and chest on chest.

Already your words have crawled for sweaty miles across the desert stream to meet me in a mirage of light and love. Now, an oasis sparkles from my wound. Soon we must part but there is no turning back for me and I must face whatever comes!



Image Credit: Talullah

A slice of fiction from a larger body of work.

by Susan Abraham

By the light of the sunset, we relish in this watchful setting. Lying together in bed with legs clumsily entwined, we clutch hands in a mad desperation like anxious but obedient twins awaiting the maternal goodnight kiss.

We talk in low intimate tones.

You whisper softly into my ear, reciting my name like a passionate guitar strum while pulling at my heartstrings without warning, and dropping hymns into the soft wounded core of my being. You will me not to cry while holding my face tightly within yours, as I sob uncontrollably feeling quite beside myself.

You hand me a tissue.

This simple act makes me forget my tears and practised hysterics. Once, in a quiet growl under your breath, you warned me to stop or you would slap me hard. Another time, you screamed while standing close to my face and yet another, shaking me until I turned a cold blue. At the height of its most painful; was the time when you abdandoned me for a week until you felt quite rightly, that I "had come to my senses."

Then in my heart, I had fallen victim to the rain, ice and cold.

And all the time, you watched me from the window, your face never leaving mine as you lit cigarette after cigarette, while emblazoned in your anger like a notorious Greek statue.

But now, seeming unable to exercise that caution, you embrace the tireless role of the compassionate prophet.

You stroke the unruly strands of my long hair and reassure me that everything will be alright.

Unconvinced, I stare upwards at the ceiling.

My head appears encased in stone as I lie immovable. You pretend not to mind as you engagingly brush away the loose curls until you can see my breasts again.

Then you touch the heavy flesh of me, commanding them to rest slightly against your face. You tickle my palms and I smile. You trace the faint outline of my lips with your fingers and follow your imaginary lines all the way up my eyes. You pretend to write something on my cheeks. You want to paint me, you say, you want to crayon my soul.

Two artists wanted to paint me once. Yes, this is all true.

One commanded a hasty charcoal sketch as I sat to dinner at a little roadside stall in Kuala Lumpur. Yes, of all the places too. I was embarassed as a crowd quickly gathered.

"Please..." he pleaded as I got up to leave. I stared, a little hesitant. He looked unkept and slightly nervous. Amused onlookers watched curiously willing me to a dare. I sat with a friend who appeared faintly envious. Slowly, I sunk once more into my chair while cradling my thoughts with clumsy astonishment.

Another time someone asked if he could paint me. I knew this artist and I had strolled past his gallery. He was often in the news and featured in credit card magazines. That kind of thing. He came running out. I would have to pay a fee, he added apologetically but it wasn't always that he wanted to capture faces on canvas. I would be so pleased, he promised as a last resort.

Now, I continue to lie still without moving. I am thrilled, intrigued and at the same time, terribly sad. You smile; all the time watching and waiting for a reprive. We move into a closer alcove; covering every gap of our bodies with skin that stretches and glues us together all the way into eternity.

We have become quite nicely now, Siamese twins, head on head and chest on chest.

Already your words have crawled for sweaty miles across the desert stream to meet me in a mirage of light and love. Now, an oasis sparkles from my wound. Soon we must part but there is no turning back for me and I must face whatever comes!



Image Credit: Talullah

A slice of fiction from a larger body of work.

by Susan Abraham

By the light of the sunset, we relish in this watchful setting. Lying together in bed with legs clumsily entwined, we clutch hands in a mad desperation like anxious but obedient twins awaiting the maternal goodnight kiss.

We talk in low intimate tones.

You whisper softly into my ear, reciting my name like a passionate guitar strum while pulling at my heartstrings without warning, and dropping hymns into the soft wounded core of my being. You will me not to cry while holding my face tightly within yours, as I sob uncontrollably feeling quite beside myself.

You hand me a tissue.

This simple act makes me forget my tears and practised hysterics. Once, in a quiet growl under your breath, you warned me to stop or you would slap me hard. Another time, you screamed while standing close to my face and yet another, shaking me until I turned a cold blue. At the height of its most painful; was the time when you abdandoned me for a week until you felt quite rightly, that I "had come to my senses."

Then in my heart, I had fallen victim to the rain, ice and cold.

And all the time, you watched me from the window, your face never leaving mine as you lit cigarette after cigarette, while emblazoned in your anger like a notorious Greek statue.

But now, seeming unable to exercise that caution, you embrace the tireless role of the compassionate prophet.

You stroke the unruly strands of my long hair and reassure me that everything will be alright.

Unconvinced, I stare upwards at the ceiling.

My head appears encased in stone as I lie immovable. You pretend not to mind as you engagingly brush away the loose curls until you can see my breasts again.

Then you touch the heavy flesh of me, commanding them to rest slightly against your face. You tickle my palms and I smile. You trace the faint outline of my lips with your fingers and follow your imaginary lines all the way up my eyes. You pretend to write something on my cheeks. You want to paint me, you say, you want to crayon my soul.

Two artists wanted to paint me once. Yes, this is all true.

One commanded a hasty charcoal sketch as I sat to dinner at a little roadside stall in Kuala Lumpur. Yes, of all the places too. I was embarassed as a crowd quickly gathered.

"Please..." he pleaded as I got up to leave. I stared, a little hesitant. He looked unkept and slightly nervous. Amused onlookers watched curiously willing me to a dare. I sat with a friend who appeared faintly envious. Slowly, I sunk once more into my chair while cradling my thoughts with clumsy astonishment.

Another time someone asked if he could paint me. I knew this artist and I had strolled past his gallery. He was often in the news and featured in credit card magazines. That kind of thing. He came running out. I would have to pay a fee, he added apologetically but it wasn't always that he wanted to capture faces on canvas. I would be so pleased, he promised as a last resort.

Now, I continue to lie still without moving. I am thrilled, intrigued and at the same time, terribly sad. You smile; all the time watching and waiting for a reprive. We move into a closer alcove; covering every gap of our bodies with skin that stretches and glues us together all the way into eternity.

We have become quite nicely now, Siamese twins, head on head and chest on chest.

Already your words have crawled for sweaty miles across the desert stream to meet me in a mirage of light and love. Now, an oasis sparkles from my wound. Soon we must part but there is no turning back for me and I must face whatever comes!



Image Credit: Talullah

Romance & poetry make for a stubborn summer in my spirit. They refuse to leave!

For Poetry Thursday

Her Remorse

by Susan Abraham

She swung around,
yet making no sound,
hoping only, that he
would dare her with
his squinted glare.
That she the beloved wife,
now in her terrible strife,
was there. And
when she was to have
left town, but fleeing
tears and dishevellment,
like they were tricks of a
clown, her reflection
knew no bounds.

Would his annoyance think
her mad, her silly judgement
bad... Spontaneity shrouded
like a clouded sphere,
reluctant and frightened,
that guarded her apologetic
rights from a strike gone bad,
now so brazenly in the
still of night, her spirit resting,
near a sphere of a stubborn
plight.
Or what she
would give for their wartorn
blight of a marriage quarrel
to be barrelled ...
a lovely melody
in the roll of a bold eternal lull.

And he did, he did...
For when she saw him,
in relief, she
thought she would cry,
faint, die from disbelief,
he came over, shrugged a
shoulder and held her
hands, said couldn't she
understand that he was
busy, pleaded that whatever
got them into this mess, she
would have to let
the matter rest and leave,
their wounded marriage to
its unbound test.

Leave him alone..
don't cleave...just leave
and for a moment in her
torment, even as she would
so pray for the affection of
another day, she could feel
her hearbeat old in stiff
cold bones but she
raised her eyes so high,
a gaze that vultured
onto his...and in the minute
missed, she caught her
breath and struck a kiss,
would he resist, but in the
spin of her sin, and in the
warmth of skin, she knew
at last, a sudden tender win.

Romance & poetry make for a stubborn summer in my spirit. They refuse to leave!

For Poetry Thursday

Her Remorse

by Susan Abraham

She swung around,
yet making no sound,
hoping only, that he
would dare her with
his squinted glare.
That she the beloved wife,
now in her terrible strife,
was there. And
when she was to have
left town, but fleeing
tears and dishevellment,
like they were tricks of a
clown, her reflection
knew no bounds.

Would his annoyance think
her mad, her silly judgement
bad... Spontaneity shrouded
like a clouded sphere,
reluctant and frightened,
that guarded her apologetic
rights from a strike gone bad,
now so brazenly in the
still of night, her spirit resting,
near a sphere of a stubborn
plight.
Or what she
would give for their wartorn
blight of a marriage quarrel
to be barrelled ...
a lovely melody
in the roll of a bold eternal lull.

And he did, he did...
For when she saw him,
in relief, she
thought she would cry,
faint, die from disbelief,
he came over, shrugged a
shoulder and held her
hands, said couldn't she
understand that he was
busy, pleaded that whatever
got them into this mess, she
would have to let
the matter rest and leave,
their wounded marriage to
its unbound test.

Leave him alone..
don't cleave...just leave
and for a moment in her
torment, even as she would
so pray for the affection of
another day, she could feel
her hearbeat old in stiff
cold bones but she
raised her eyes so high,
a gaze that vultured
onto his...and in the minute
missed, she caught her
breath and struck a kiss,
would he resist, but in the
spin of her sin, and in the
warmth of skin, she knew
at last, a sudden tender win.

Romance & poetry make for a stubborn summer in my spirit. They refuse to leave!

For Poetry Thursday

Her Remorse

by Susan Abraham

She swung around,
yet making no sound,
hoping only, that he
would dare her with
his squinted glare.
That she the beloved wife,
now in her terrible strife,
was there. And
when she was to have
left town, but fleeing
tears and dishevellment,
like they were tricks of a
clown, her reflection
knew no bounds.

Would his annoyance think
her mad, her silly judgement
bad... Spontaneity shrouded
like a clouded sphere,
reluctant and frightened,
that guarded her apologetic
rights from a strike gone bad,
now so brazenly in the
still of night, her spirit resting,
near a sphere of a stubborn
plight.
Or what she
would give for their wartorn
blight of a marriage quarrel
to be barrelled ...
a lovely melody
in the roll of a bold eternal lull.

And he did, he did...
For when she saw him,
in relief, she
thought she would cry,
faint, die from disbelief,
he came over, shrugged a
shoulder and held her
hands, said couldn't she
understand that he was
busy, pleaded that whatever
got them into this mess, she
would have to let
the matter rest and leave,
their wounded marriage to
its unbound test.

Leave him alone..
don't cleave...just leave
and for a moment in her
torment, even as she would
so pray for the affection of
another day, she could feel
her hearbeat old in stiff
cold bones but she
raised her eyes so high,
a gaze that vultured
onto his...and in the minute
missed, she caught her
breath and struck a kiss,
would he resist, but in the
spin of her sin, and in the
warmth of skin, she knew
at last, a sudden tender win.

My Melancholy

by Susan Abraham

It is morning time,
A bad time, a sad time.
I lie limp like a rag doll,
curled into the solitude,
of my broken hand.
If you didn't know me, you
would think I was dead.
See the wires that crawl out of
my thumb and
the finger of a twisted bone.

My nails shine like mirrors,
manicured to spearlike polish,
ready to scratch words from a
sewer, and spouting rubbish
from the clumsy violin strings,
of my own silly heart.
Then too, blessed with a nice neat
parting from
its torn jagged rut.

I wear no haloes, only a
mismatched crown of foibles. I
carry the mother heart, an
artist's wand and sometimes, a
witch's broomstick... Perhaps,
my face is of a magician, that
I may play all three roles
at once, or none at all
preferring
to swim in my ocean of pink.

The colour of worry, the
perfumed
rose scent of a delicous sorry.
Now uttered, now removed, now
lost forever to the song of wind.
And so I take my bow, a big fat
curtsey to leave my scene of pink.

It is morning time,
a bad time, a sad time, I am
curled like a baby, a soft
cracked pudding featuring
rubber ball skin,
that thinks and sings that
blinks and sinks,
that mummifies a compost
for the cryptic riddle I
stay unto myself.

My Melancholy

by Susan Abraham

It is morning time,
A bad time, a sad time.
I lie limp like a rag doll,
curled into the solitude,
of my broken hand.
If you didn't know me, you
would think I was dead.
See the wires that crawl out of
my thumb and
the finger of a twisted bone.

My nails shine like mirrors,
manicured to spearlike polish,
ready to scratch words from a
sewer, and spouting rubbish
from the clumsy violin strings,
of my own silly heart.
Then too, blessed with a nice neat
parting from
its torn jagged rut.

I wear no haloes, only a
mismatched crown of foibles. I
carry the mother heart, an
artist's wand and sometimes, a
witch's broomstick... Perhaps,
my face is of a magician, that
I may play all three roles
at once, or none at all
preferring
to swim in my ocean of pink.

The colour of worry, the
perfumed
rose scent of a delicous sorry.
Now uttered, now removed, now
lost forever to the song of wind.
And so I take my bow, a big fat
curtsey to leave my scene of pink.

It is morning time,
a bad time, a sad time, I am
curled like a baby, a soft
cracked pudding featuring
rubber ball skin,
that thinks and sings that
blinks and sinks,
that mummifies a compost
for the cryptic riddle I
stay unto myself.

My Melancholy

by Susan Abraham

It is morning time,
A bad time, a sad time.
I lie limp like a rag doll,
curled into the solitude,
of my broken hand.
If you didn't know me, you
would think I was dead.
See the wires that crawl out of
my thumb and
the finger of a twisted bone.

My nails shine like mirrors,
manicured to spearlike polish,
ready to scratch words from a
sewer, and spouting rubbish
from the clumsy violin strings,
of my own silly heart.
Then too, blessed with a nice neat
parting from
its torn jagged rut.

I wear no haloes, only a
mismatched crown of foibles. I
carry the mother heart, an
artist's wand and sometimes, a
witch's broomstick... Perhaps,
my face is of a magician, that
I may play all three roles
at once, or none at all
preferring
to swim in my ocean of pink.

The colour of worry, the
perfumed
rose scent of a delicous sorry.
Now uttered, now removed, now
lost forever to the song of wind.
And so I take my bow, a big fat
curtsey to leave my scene of pink.

It is morning time,
a bad time, a sad time, I am
curled like a baby, a soft
cracked pudding featuring
rubber ball skin,
that thinks and sings that
blinks and sinks,
that mummifies a compost
for the cryptic riddle I
stay unto myself.

One of the last of my romantic pieces that's part of a larger work.

Still Untitled

by Susan Abraham

They sat together, tight-lipped and silent in a little Mexican cafe on Cromwell road.

They had often visited the tiny coffee bar as a couple. The Spanish girls who worked the weekends knew them well and teased the pair of them, with a slight playfulness. Remarks on how rosy she was looking or the usual tease in case he had changed his mind about sugar in his coffee, were not uncommon.

Of course, he always had his mocha topped with whipped cream and a sprinkling of chocolate rice.

He was strict about his cafe indulgences in that way; she on the other hand, just didn't care.
"A regular Joe" they'd called her. A frothy latte with lots of sprinkly sugar and in a nice medium size ("to have here") if you didn't mind was all she'd asked.

The steamy brew always arrived with its warm welcome, in a comforting cup that was fat and round like Jupiter and carried its signature picture of a robust Mexican hat.

You could see nothing under the hat except for a huge twirly moustache so that the coffee-drinker was forced to assume that there would be a red face lurking somewhere under the big moon of weaved straw.

The moustache appeared to cradle the hat like waves gently rocking a boat.

She thought longingly, of how her magnificent cup could have easily held three slices of a good cherry cake. Still, food was the last thing on her mind right now.

They had quarrelled. And this was the morning after their quarrel.

The Spanish girls were careful to avert their eyes, their beautiful faces cast downwards.

Perhaps they had quarrelled long enough. She couldn't tell. She had become a little absent-minded lately about what the future held or even what was more apparent, about her recent habit of misplacing and forgetting things.

Like their valuable tickets to the Coldplay concert yesterday and for the first time, deluded by her "tiresome weaknesses" as he called them, he had shouted at her in front of everyone at the Wembley arena.

She had stalked off, her face a flaming red, but knowing very well that what he had alleged was true. She had playacted 'the absent-minded professor' about many things lately; her passport to a holiday in Spain, misplaced in another bag just as they were about to board the plane and more recently, paying for something twice over.

Once she had whipped out her Boots discount card and presented it together with a tiny shampoo at the sales counter, only to be asked again, with some awkwardness, for her cash. The last time she bought stamps, she had walked away without paying and had to be called back.

And she had even forgotten that it was her turn in the queue to pay for a train ticket. She came to her senses, after being gently cajoled on the shoulder by an amused stranger.

Of course, it was all too embarassing for words.

Perhaps it was just a phase. Perhaps she was getting a little old, no... Perhaps she needed to see a doctor. Last night, for the first time, they had slept in different rooms.

Now he turned his gaze away from her. She had to learn her lesson, he felt and made it his ambition to sulk the whole morning. There was no choice for it. He had spoilt her enough and this nasty habit had worsened. Now, he would have to play the cold fish and the next time, perhaps, she would remember what he considered to be, the important things of life a little better.

Of course, he wasn't going to leave her. Women! The first shouting match and they think you're made of such flimsy skin, you're going to pack your bags and dash off into the night air.

And he knew exactly how her mind worked or rather, what he thought wryly, was still left of it.

Determined to forget the pain of last night, she pretended not to notice and made a light-hearted banter about his good looks. He appeared not to hear and looked the other way, suddenly staring hard at an old walled picture of Christ with the Sacred Heart. She sighed.

He could be moody for weeks if she let this go.

She would have to come to some intelligent shortcut in the next few minutes on how to revive her hard-earned romance. Before it did a turnaround, that is and fled into the darkness where the coldness and the silence were great friends.

She couldn't lose him after everything and bent her head quickly in deep thought.

The unsuspecting aroma of a breakfast coffee that was still so sweet on the senses, lingered as if to offer her support.She tried a little sip with relish but it was all she could do not to break down in another flood of tears....


Picture credit goes to: Cat-Tea Clips

One of the last of my romantic pieces that's part of a larger work.

Still Untitled

by Susan Abraham

They sat together, tight-lipped and silent in a little Mexican cafe on Cromwell road.

They had often visited the tiny coffee bar as a couple. The Spanish girls who worked the weekends knew them well and teased the pair of them, with a slight playfulness. Remarks on how rosy she was looking or the usual tease in case he had changed his mind about sugar in his coffee, were not uncommon.

Of course, he always had his mocha topped with whipped cream and a sprinkling of chocolate rice.

He was strict about his cafe indulgences in that way; she on the other hand, just didn't care.
"A regular Joe" they'd called her. A frothy latte with lots of sprinkly sugar and in a nice medium size ("to have here") if you didn't mind was all she'd asked.

The steamy brew always arrived with its warm welcome, in a comforting cup that was fat and round like Jupiter and carried its signature picture of a robust Mexican hat.

You could see nothing under the hat except for a huge twirly moustache so that the coffee-drinker was forced to assume that there would be a red face lurking somewhere under the big moon of weaved straw.

The moustache appeared to cradle the hat like waves gently rocking a boat.

She thought longingly, of how her magnificent cup could have easily held three slices of a good cherry cake. Still, food was the last thing on her mind right now.

They had quarrelled. And this was the morning after their quarrel.

The Spanish girls were careful to avert their eyes, their beautiful faces cast downwards.

Perhaps they had quarrelled long enough. She couldn't tell. She had become a little absent-minded lately about what the future held or even what was more apparent, about her recent habit of misplacing and forgetting things.

Like their valuable tickets to the Coldplay concert yesterday and for the first time, deluded by her "tiresome weaknesses" as he called them, he had shouted at her in front of everyone at the Wembley arena.

She had stalked off, her face a flaming red, but knowing very well that what he had alleged was true. She had playacted 'the absent-minded professor' about many things lately; her passport to a holiday in Spain, misplaced in another bag just as they were about to board the plane and more recently, paying for something twice over.

Once she had whipped out her Boots discount card and presented it together with a tiny shampoo at the sales counter, only to be asked again, with some awkwardness, for her cash. The last time she bought stamps, she had walked away without paying and had to be called back.

And she had even forgotten that it was her turn in the queue to pay for a train ticket. She came to her senses, after being gently cajoled on the shoulder by an amused stranger.

Of course, it was all too embarassing for words.

Perhaps it was just a phase. Perhaps she was getting a little old, no... Perhaps she needed to see a doctor. Last night, for the first time, they had slept in different rooms.

Now he turned his gaze away from her. She had to learn her lesson, he felt and made it his ambition to sulk the whole morning. There was no choice for it. He had spoilt her enough and this nasty habit had worsened. Now, he would have to play the cold fish and the next time, perhaps, she would remember what he considered to be, the important things of life a little better.

Of course, he wasn't going to leave her. Women! The first shouting match and they think you're made of such flimsy skin, you're going to pack your bags and dash off into the night air.

And he knew exactly how her mind worked or rather, what he thought wryly, was still left of it.

Determined to forget the pain of last night, she pretended not to notice and made a light-hearted banter about his good looks. He appeared not to hear and looked the other way, suddenly staring hard at an old walled picture of Christ with the Sacred Heart. She sighed.

He could be moody for weeks if she let this go.

She would have to come to some intelligent shortcut in the next few minutes on how to revive her hard-earned romance. Before it did a turnaround, that is and fled into the darkness where the coldness and the silence were great friends.

She couldn't lose him after everything and bent her head quickly in deep thought.

The unsuspecting aroma of a breakfast coffee that was still so sweet on the senses, lingered as if to offer her support.She tried a little sip with relish but it was all she could do not to break down in another flood of tears....


Picture credit goes to: Cat-Tea Clips

One of the last of my romantic pieces that's part of a larger work.

Still Untitled

by Susan Abraham

They sat together, tight-lipped and silent in a little Mexican cafe on Cromwell road.

They had often visited the tiny coffee bar as a couple. The Spanish girls who worked the weekends knew them well and teased the pair of them, with a slight playfulness. Remarks on how rosy she was looking or the usual tease in case he had changed his mind about sugar in his coffee, were not uncommon.

Of course, he always had his mocha topped with whipped cream and a sprinkling of chocolate rice.

He was strict about his cafe indulgences in that way; she on the other hand, just didn't care.
"A regular Joe" they'd called her. A frothy latte with lots of sprinkly sugar and in a nice medium size ("to have here") if you didn't mind was all she'd asked.

The steamy brew always arrived with its warm welcome, in a comforting cup that was fat and round like Jupiter and carried its signature picture of a robust Mexican hat.

You could see nothing under the hat except for a huge twirly moustache so that the coffee-drinker was forced to assume that there would be a red face lurking somewhere under the big moon of weaved straw.

The moustache appeared to cradle the hat like waves gently rocking a boat.

She thought longingly, of how her magnificent cup could have easily held three slices of a good cherry cake. Still, food was the last thing on her mind right now.

They had quarrelled. And this was the morning after their quarrel.

The Spanish girls were careful to avert their eyes, their beautiful faces cast downwards.

Perhaps they had quarrelled long enough. She couldn't tell. She had become a little absent-minded lately about what the future held or even what was more apparent, about her recent habit of misplacing and forgetting things.

Like their valuable tickets to the Coldplay concert yesterday and for the first time, deluded by her "tiresome weaknesses" as he called them, he had shouted at her in front of everyone at the Wembley arena.

She had stalked off, her face a flaming red, but knowing very well that what he had alleged was true. She had playacted 'the absent-minded professor' about many things lately; her passport to a holiday in Spain, misplaced in another bag just as they were about to board the plane and more recently, paying for something twice over.

Once she had whipped out her Boots discount card and presented it together with a tiny shampoo at the sales counter, only to be asked again, with some awkwardness, for her cash. The last time she bought stamps, she had walked away without paying and had to be called back.

And she had even forgotten that it was her turn in the queue to pay for a train ticket. She came to her senses, after being gently cajoled on the shoulder by an amused stranger.

Of course, it was all too embarassing for words.

Perhaps it was just a phase. Perhaps she was getting a little old, no... Perhaps she needed to see a doctor. Last night, for the first time, they had slept in different rooms.

Now he turned his gaze away from her. She had to learn her lesson, he felt and made it his ambition to sulk the whole morning. There was no choice for it. He had spoilt her enough and this nasty habit had worsened. Now, he would have to play the cold fish and the next time, perhaps, she would remember what he considered to be, the important things of life a little better.

Of course, he wasn't going to leave her. Women! The first shouting match and they think you're made of such flimsy skin, you're going to pack your bags and dash off into the night air.

And he knew exactly how her mind worked or rather, what he thought wryly, was still left of it.

Determined to forget the pain of last night, she pretended not to notice and made a light-hearted banter about his good looks. He appeared not to hear and looked the other way, suddenly staring hard at an old walled picture of Christ with the Sacred Heart. She sighed.

He could be moody for weeks if she let this go.

She would have to come to some intelligent shortcut in the next few minutes on how to revive her hard-earned romance. Before it did a turnaround, that is and fled into the darkness where the coldness and the silence were great friends.

She couldn't lose him after everything and bent her head quickly in deep thought.

The unsuspecting aroma of a breakfast coffee that was still so sweet on the senses, lingered as if to offer her support.She tried a little sip with relish but it was all she could do not to break down in another flood of tears....


Picture credit goes to: Cat-Tea Clips

The Broken Virgin

by Susan Abraham

And so she sat now in her innocence
and wept like a woman
whose body stretched too old for love,
whose delicious sheen
turned past the tide to go elsewhere,
who lost her skin somewhere on
the high slippery sea of grief where
she tripped and fell
on a needle-sharp shell that would
gorge her flesh like human sticks and
smash the trollop in her waiting heart.

And when she had thought they
must part while soaking in
the unseen bloodstain on the fabric
that had clothed her
purity on the bright light in the slashing
poison of the night to make a wall of
shame and that was how he found her
his broken virgin, near her hut in the
river with her
finished game, and her shattered
splintered name.

Her nudity jarred him in the eye when
he played I-spy to make him stare
and
shiver and quickly catch the glimmer
before it went away again and she no
longer remembered him. But today,
look how tame her breasts, like tiny
cones and silent to growing ambitions
and now still untouched by the
old-fashioned
pull of desire, how thin her legs
that
had wheedled and swung past him
with nary a scream.

And that was how he found her at
last, at last never to return to the
hollow of her sorrow where a
damsel's moment breaks and love
catches up on its terrifying ache,
now he must turn around and
run away again, would the sea wash
up her long black hair into his
thoughts
even as he sought to remember its
scent like a hidden magnolia a soft
unsuspecting rose and the tide
would finally rise up to his nose
as he drowned in the everlasting
moment of her blistering
sexual burn.

The Broken Virgin

by Susan Abraham

And so she sat now in her innocence
and wept like a woman
whose body stretched too old for love,
whose delicious sheen
turned past the tide to go elsewhere,
who lost her skin somewhere on
the high slippery sea of grief where
she tripped and fell
on a needle-sharp shell that would
gorge her flesh like human sticks and
smash the trollop in her waiting heart.

And when she had thought they
must part while soaking in
the unseen bloodstain on the fabric
that had clothed her
purity on the bright light in the slashing
poison of the night to make a wall of
shame and that was how he found her
his broken virgin, near her hut in the
river with her
finished game, and her shattered
splintered name.

Her nudity jarred him in the eye when
he played I-spy to make him stare
and
shiver and quickly catch the glimmer
before it went away again and she no
longer remembered him. But today,
look how tame her breasts, like tiny
cones and silent to growing ambitions
and now still untouched by the
old-fashioned
pull of desire, how thin her legs
that
had wheedled and swung past him
with nary a scream.

And that was how he found her at
last, at last never to return to the
hollow of her sorrow where a
damsel's moment breaks and love
catches up on its terrifying ache,
now he must turn around and
run away again, would the sea wash
up her long black hair into his
thoughts
even as he sought to remember its
scent like a hidden magnolia a soft
unsuspecting rose and the tide
would finally rise up to his nose
as he drowned in the everlasting
moment of her blistering
sexual burn.