Monica Oswal writes

Your lips moved in a rhythm
that only I understood,
songs you had sung eons ago
lie abandoned in the deep recesses of my heart,
though forgotten by you

On these sparkling nights,
I sit ashore
all alone
over the edge of a jagged cliff,
my longings dangling
by a weak hook of a solitary tear
marked by your initials

A surging ocean of crystalline water
gathers around my feet
Through the haze of my sighs I see you

Singing the same songs tuned on different notes,
away on a far away island
now oblivious of my existence

Bottomless seas,
boundless sky
and
now Emotions
divide us

 

 Moonlight Meditation -- Terry Johnson

Monica Oswal writes

Coffee tales

Waiting in the coffee house,
folding paper napkins into squares and triangles,
She remembers,
was it a year ago
or   more

Shredding the paper napkins into
"Does it matter?"
and
"No it does not"
She looks at the last scrap
pays a hefty tip,
walks out of the coffee shop
clutching at
"It does not"
at the bend on the street
she encounters a gust of wind
and surrenders it eventually.

Same coffee shop,
same table,
same chair,
same menu,
same coffee
warming her hands
similar circumstance
of his absence
from the chair across

Stoic, she musters up
a smile
and toys with napkins
that sit tidy
the coffee is stronger
just as she is
tipping heavily
she leaves
the aroma of the coffee
trailing her.

 Desiring -- Daniel F. Gerhartz

Monica Oswal writes

Heirloom

My mother's bangles
do not fit my slender wrists,
they clink as I
take them off everyday
for safekeeping
and they clink
when I put them on
day after day.

My daughter,
a pink rose,
her eyes shades of gray and green
is born today...

I am a mother
to a would be mother,
her tiny wrists shall wear them
one day,
the heirloom passes on.
 
Rose -- SayuriEyes

Monica Oswal writes

I try to hear the muted words
that you miss me too the way
I do.

Your unspoken words reverberate
The cacophony of the silence scares me
I turn deaf by choice
hug my trembling knees
And smile coyly,
carrying on with
my one sided conversation.

I am left with
filling your blanks.
Without much ado
I conjure up a make-believe cafe,
there,  over there
over a hot cuppa coffee
intimately intoxicated over the aroma of coffee
animatedly you do all the talking.
And I listen.

 -- Laura Mae Noble