AK's Poetic Whispers

It was Friday evening, and for Jean, everything unfolded like a tired ritual — no surprises, no changes. Pick up the kids from school. Cook dinner. Make sure they eat. Tuck the little one into bed. End the night with two glasses of the cheapest wine she could afford. That was the extent of her luxury as a single mother. Jean ran a hand through her messy hair as she glanced at the clock — another late night, another day spent barely keeping her head above water. Some days, the silence of the house felt like it was swallowing her whole. The laughter of her children, so fleeting and rare, was the only thing that broke the monotony. She used to dream about weekends, lazy mornings with a cup of coffee, but now it was all about routines. Getting through the day, keeping the children fed, and somehow keeping herself together.  Jean longed for something beyond this — anything that would remind her she was more than just a mother. Sometimes, the guilt gnawed at her. She loved her children f...

Why this silence, always finding its way to me? Because I am a creature of love. You — the one who quenched my burning rage, you came from within me, wandering long through woods and mountains. Was I not loyal enough? They say otherwise — but they don’t know: I am a creature of love. I waited lifetimes for her rebirth. And when she returned to me, I found solace in you. My anger — fierce enough to turn the world to ashes — is softened, drowned, when you flood my mind with your waves. Why does this always happen to me? Because I am a creature of love. I know you were never meant to be mine. Still — thank you for being mine for a moment. Let me have this last dance, as the world looks on, calling us Shiva and Shakti — eternal, divine. O Ganges! Forgive me for loving you. I, the Lord of Lords, loved you, adored you, embraced you — and yet, I failed you.

All I could remember were flashing lights and deep siren sounds. He took a deep breath. “Is it still raining?” he asked the doctor. “Raining?” The doctor looked puzzled. “It hardly rains here. It’s just the aftermath of the medicine and surgery. You’ll feel alright soon.” Gary sat on his bed, eyes fixed on the hospital door. His face was tense, thoughts racing. There was a storm inside him—emotions he couldn’t name. Who are they? Are they friends… or just fragments of some strange emotional trauma? I don’t know what I have to do with them, but I feel they’re close to me. And yet, by their faces, I know—they’re not from here. Maybe a place where it snows… He rang the bell by his side. A nurse walked in. “Hi, love!” she said. “Can I have paper and a pencil?” Gary asked. She frowned. “Sorry… what language are you speaking?” Gary smiled. “Oh, that. I’m a multilingual guy—bare minimum of five languages.” He brushed it off, but inside, his heart was pounding. Something was happening in his m...

You came like a zephyr into my life When a sense of melancholy filled the air. I sought solace in you, As you wrapped me in your love—soft as spider silk. I always wanted to let you go, Because I couldn’t bear to see you cry. My mind was parched, And you came like petrichor after summer rain. Yet I turned away, believing your tears had made it so. I pulled you into a maelstrom— Of love, care, and aching attachment. Come, let us write the threnody of our love, Because that is what it was always meant to be. My love, this is my final plea to you: Come to my grave and cry out loud. Let your tears rekindle my embered love.

The sun is bright outside, When you are by my side. We walked a long way since the day we met, Still searching for a lingering debt. Miracles do happen for me— Along this path of life, endlessly. I could gaze into your eyes so long, While the world keeps moving on. When goodbyes begin to find their way, Miracles still choose to stay. Tears may fall as time moves on, But nature sings her miracle song. The grass turns green once more, As spring taps gently at the door. The green will fade to pale, When autumn begins to tell her tale. And pale will pass like drifting snow, When winter lets her silence grow . Still, we wait for seasons to change, For hope to rise and hearts to range. Now comes that time of year— With summer rain and skies so clear. The wind hums through the canopy, As I walk a path that’s leading me— To a door where wonder waits. And there she stands, in gentle grace, The miracle, with her gracious smile 

Those days are gone— like that tattoo on your wrist, faded and worn. When she danced in joy, my eyes brimmed with tears. She loved to hold my hand, and I’d wrap it around her wrist, feeling her heartbeat— a quiet song meant only for me. She’d return my touch with mischievous giggles, always eager to run, to chase the world with shining eyes. That anklet on her feet, those tiny earrings— they were my greatest treasures. And when I went mad about the tattoo you once had, you masked it with random scribbles. But still— only I could feel the rhythm beneath, the life that danced in your veins. Now, when I hold her wrist, my love for you flows into her— two hearts beating the same sweet hymn. She is my queen, my princess. And as I kneel, running my hand through her hair, planting a kiss upon her forehead, I whisper a vow: “You will be my last love— and I will be your first.” And with that beautiful smile, she says, “I love you, Dad.”

It takes a lot of guts to tell a story. Being old won’t stop me from that—after all, it’s just a story. When Uncle Abraham spoke, I could see tears running down his cheeks. I asked him, “Have you ever regretted anything in life?” “Beta,” he said, “either someone is lying, or they’re a fool if they claim to have lived life without regrets.” When I was young, I never understood what regret really meant. But now, I know how heavy it can feel. A proper goodbye can soften it, ease the sting a little. But you don’t always get to choose who you say goodbye to—you just assume they’ll be there forever. With his shivering hands, he lit up a cigarette. He was so particular about it; he always rolled his own. The Macallan splashed over the ice, and with a sip of that, he began his story. Maybe you could call it a story of regrets—but I like to think of it as a story of experience. Because those regrets, those moments, shaped the man he is today. Oh! I forgot to introduce us. I’m Sangeeta—of course...

It was a sunny day when I first saw you. A day when the chill crept into my bones. But when the sun shone, you glittered like a diamond. I was already torn—by wind, by land. Something I would always reach for, but never attain. Even in my roar, I could hear you— singing like a warm hug on a chilly day. Even though it was the fate you feared, You were always meant to be mine  Maybe I never knew my own might— as you  watched me , I soak up the sun. You were gentle, shining beneath it. And then the day came— when your laughter turned into my roar. Fear kept us apart, but you came a long way just to be mine. Where destiny cannot tear us apart— I am you, and you are me, said the ocean to the stream. When the ocean roared in ecstasy, and the stream danced in its charm, two souls sang the ballad of their lives. I saw you grow and fade. When you lit up the night, you never knew it was my love. I saw you, and the sky turned crimson red. Was it longing, or love, that painted it so? I fe...

  The love still whispers close to me— a tender tale, not taught, but free. It first appeared in blushing hands, then kissed my heart like drifting sand. From youthful laughs to lonely cries, its echo danced beneath the skies. It flickered on—then dimmed once more, a fate that knocks, then shuts the door. The tale moves on with endless grace, like snowfall’s hush on time’s own face. It passed from friend to fleeting flame, and I from child to youth became. It’s how I walk, the path I tread— a tale of love that’s never dead. The clock of life keeps ticking slow, through secrets only old hearts know. And in the dusk of lust and dust, the lamp of love betrayed its trust. With frozen hands and silent mind, let’s choose, instead, to just be kind. For time will come, and time will go— but still, the tale runs soft and low…

France, 1935 The blankets from Germany weren’t enough to shield me from the cold. It was a Sunday morning, and I was jolted awake by the sound of metal-soled boots — Nazi soldiers, marching toward the church grounds. Reaching instinctively for my left wooden leg, I prepared myself. It would be fun to watch them, disciplined like tin soldiers. The character of Frenchmen — we could make satires of the German Nazis while being ruled, laughing even through our slavery. I am Erick John Christopher, proud owner of Christopher’s Café — the only place serving true homemade French food. It was my grandfather Christopher who started it all. Now the café has six tables and four times as many chairs. My father had taken it over, but his life ended far too soon — at the hands of a Nazi revolver. After the occupation, they forced us to change the café’s name to a German one — a name even I can’t read. To the people around, it’s a comedy. But inside, it remains a grief. Why have the Frenchmen become ...