, , , , , , , , , , , ,


Photo source:



Daughters of the wind

purple and  pink

dew drops

reflecting the beauty within

spring is on its way

my heart is stuck in winter

dark, weary and uninspired

what will it take to move it again,

why the melancholia of purple

than the hope from pink?

my dreams have sunk

into the pools of depression

no sunshine seems to revive

why has everything gone wrong

when I was

ready to go?

Light and Dark


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


It was a time of ignorance

and a time of enlightenment

an era of awareness

and one of darkness

The enlightened sought

the light in the heavens and beyond

the ignorant worked in darkness

setting light to the treasures of the enlightened,

all buildings, books, works of art and heritage

were demolished under the axes of the demons of darkness

yet, everything remained in the collective memory of the Light-workers

The dark demons built high walls around the prisons

where the Light-workers were confined

Speaking was forbidden, even looking eye to eye

The prisoners who broke the law

had their tongues cut and eyes removed

The blinded and muted Light-workers

developed a communication skill

of transferring thoughts without speaking or eye-contact

Waves of thoughts travelled in the air

while the dark demons carried out their atrocities unaware

The frequencies of thoughts became so high and powerful,

deafening the dark demons who

failed to complete their mission of destruction,

as the wavelength of thoughts

damaged their sensory systems

Unable to move or act, they lay still on the ground

The Light-workers fed their minds with ideas and

knowledge  about the planet and the universe,

theories of law and justice for all,

science, art, history, philosophy, and

awareness of nature and the balance of creation

Dark-workers awoke with the beam of enlightenment

in their eyes.

They learned to communicate without speaking,

seeing beyond the perceived and feeling without using their senses.

Dark-workers became Light-workers

moving humanity into a new dimension

of enlightenment.

Still, some Dark-workers remained,

in the periphery of humanity,

scheming plans to carry out their dark intentions,

to make a revolution to change the world.

Light-workers ambushed them and built high walls around their towns

so that they would stay confined within their own surroundings

unable to infect their backward ideas into the enlightened zone.

The angels in the heavens watched the humans in dismay,

“When will they learn?” they asked their Leader, the wisest of All.

“Only when they discover grey, against the black and white.

It will take time, but I have hopes for my children.”

My Shadow and Me


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,



I like walking with my shadow ahead of me.

She is taller than me, slimmer than me.

Her neck is more slender, she has no face, just a silhouette.

I like walking with my shadow in front of me

Her graceful figure accompanies me during my stroll by the sea

I enjoy her company

I hadn’t seen her for a while, she is so full of life.

I must have caught the sun behind me at the right time.

Is she me or is she a reflection of me?

If the sun wasn’t at a certain angle,

I would have missed her.

She disappears in the shades,

then reappears when I’m back under the sun.

I can see her long legs,

even her feet below the Capri pants she’s wearing.


Will she be here tomorrow, or will she vanish forever?

I must catch her at the right time or I’ll never see her again.

Where do shadows go when the sun moves?

Do they travel to Shadowland?

If she’s a part of me, do I go, as well?

Will I see her tomorrow?

Will I be here tomorrow?

Or will I also disappear into the Land of the Shadows?


There are many other shadows

They reflect the forms they copy and repeat

They have no faces, just elongated outlines

that appear temporarily.

I’d like to walk again with my shadow before me

My shadow and I are the same

The Kiss

An old post for Valentine’s Day! 🙂



Gustav Klimt (July 14, 1862 – February 6, 1918)

Among the many pictures

etched in my memory,

not all of them speak to me,

tell me stories or inspire me

to write new ones

this one depicts an eternal moment

of an embrace and a kiss

between a man and a woman

wrapped in a shimmering blanket of gold,

embroidered with a kaleidoscope of beads

Like the hews of the once vibrant carpet at their feet,

the painter, the models and

the influential patchwork have faded into the past,

yet the painting remains

to remind us of that first moment of bliss

between a lover and his beloved

carrying the sparkle of love

into eternity forever.



View original post



, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


A blank page, that’s how Jeff felt. Lonely, abandoned and unfulfilled. There had to be something more than the physical love in brief relationships that led nowhere. He hadn’t  found the magic told in books or heard in songs to fill the page with words.

The house seemed empty without his mother.  He’d lost her to cancer a year ago. A widower who had brought him up with love and affection, but a tight grip on discipline and manners. He didn’t remember his father who had died of a heart-attack when he was four. Only the images from photos in his mother’s album. A stranger called ‘dad’.

Throughout his education, he achieved good grades, a degree in computer sciences, and had begun a career as a programmer. Science, sports, and a keen interest in arts were the highlights of his preferred pastimes.  He kept away from politics and daily headlines. His mates, mostly married, with kids, teased him on a being a confirmed bachelor at the age of thirty-five.

Yet, his single status came with rewards. He was the sought after guest at dinner parties to balance the number of the male and female invitees. Sometimes he would have a fling with an attractive blonde in the party, other times he would return home on his own.

On one of these occasions, when his eyes landed on a brunette sitting at the far side of the long table, something ticked inside him. Pushing the dark locks away from her face, she seemed to be engrossed in a heated conversation with the guy sitting next to her. He tried to read the movements of her cherry lips as her animated hand gestures accentuated the many rings on her fingers. Then, she had turned around and when their eyes met, she had smiled to him. He smiled back.

After dinner, he followed the trail of her spicy perfume into the lounge and at the first opportunity introduced himself . “Hi, I’m Jeff, friend of Allison.”

Dark eyes lined with kohl perused him. She beamed, perfect ivory teeth peeking between full lips.  “Nice to meet you, Jeff. I’m Monsoon.”

“The artist? How delightful. I love your paintings and the exotic name that complements them.”

“I was born in the Far East, hence the name and the subject matter.”

“Do you live here, now?”

“For many years, but I do visit the Orient, occasionally, to find new inspiration.”

“What is the latest theme?”

“Bali, the Hindu paradise.”

“I’ve never been there. Are you with someone? Can I refill your glass?”

“I’m with an old friend, I’d love another drink.”

They talked the entire evening at the end of which she took him to her studio apartment and to her bed, after slipping off the colourful sarong wrapped around her slim figure.

When Jeff woke up, he was in love, with the artist, the mysterious female lying fast asleep next to him and everything that made up her world.

What Jeff didn’t know about Monsoon was that she was a political activist, a human rights defender in countries where such violations peaked. Indonesia being one of them. A few months later, he took a sabbatical and followed her to Bali, where Monsoon had rented a house by the sea.

Life was perfect until she joined demonstrations on behalf of Amnesty International. She was arrested for disturbing the peace on the island and taken into custody.

Jeff was devastated. He hired lawyers to defend her, yet the authorities were strict and ruthless against protesters who were jailed under primitive conditions. Three months later, when he was finally able to obtain a pass to visit her in prison, he could not believe his eyes. She had lost weight and bruises on her bare arms showed the extent of the circumstances she was confined under.

Her lively eyes clouded with dark circles around them, she gazed at him. “Jeff, you must let go. Go back and live your life. I’ll be here for a while. This is not the first offence I’ve committed in this country. They’re digging up all the information back in Jakarta where I organized many demonstrations in the past. They might relocate me there. It will be a long trial if there is ever one.”

“I will not, my love,” Jeff said, adamant. “I’ll be wherever you are, until they set you free. It’s not like they’ll give you life sentence. I’ll wait.”

“What about your job? You can’t ruin your career and stay here indeterminately.”

“I’m a computer programmer. I can find a job anywhere in the world, working freelance. All the global companies are here. Don’t you worry about that. If necessary, I’ll sell my house in England.”

“This makes me sad, Jeff. I’ve been nothing but trouble to you. I’ve run over your life like a hurricane, destroying your peace. Please, forget all this and make a new start.”

“I can’t, Monsoon. You taught me love, filled my life with that warm breeze, and the soothing rain that comes afterwards. The winds can be fierce at times and the torrential rain can cause floods, but I’m strong enough. I’ll endure the pain.”

He held her hand and brought it to his lips. “Marry me, Monsoon, even the wildest storms subside in time.”

Inner Voice


, , , , , , , , , , , , ,




Something in April’s head told her she wasn’t good enough. Not talented enough, like the others. That had always been the case. Everyone was better than her. Everything they did, even their lives were better than hers.

She’d failed in marriage, and it ended in divorce. Her career in retail had peaked sharply over a few years, then declined and faded. Lastly, her lifetime passion for photography remained a hobby despite her efforts for getting recognition. She knew she lacked promotional skills as well as networking and building a fan base.

Like roadmaps of her past, her travels and memories of those instances she was unable to share with the world, black and white photographs hung on her walls.  Rejected portfolios gathered dust inside the cupboards. Why hadn’t she come up with a meaningful idea, something that grabbed people’s attention and sparked their imagination?

A confetti of snowflakes illuminated the night sky, muffling the sounds from the traffic on the street. One landed on the window, hung on briefly, then trickled down to the sill and mixed with the others. Anonymous. Like fading hopes for acknowledgement.

April pondered on taking up another hobby, one that doesn’t require recognition. Exotic cuisine, trekking, or gardening. She moved to the settee, picked up a cushion and hugged it, contemplating. Her gaze following the pictures on the wall, she scrutinized her work. Dull, tedious, and conventional. Ballerinas, glum portraits, dark streets, old building. No colour, no life. Unimaginative, ordinary. Those subjects had been done over and over again. She dumped the cushion on the sofa and poured a drink.

Sipping the wine, she looked for answers. Her eyes drifted to the patterns on the cushion. Hand-woven fabric with bold ethnic colours and figures she had sourced and photographed many years ago. She had not dared to submit these prints as black and white was the in thing. Artistic and sophisticated. Cool versus animated.

April retrieved her portfolio and reviewed the photos. Could she – face another rejection, a further stab at her ego?

She spent the night uploading the pictures on her website and writing tags. Falling asleep in the early hours of the morning, she lay still. After breakfast, she opened her computer to see if anyone had commented on her posts. The number of “likes” and comments made her heart beat faster and flushed her cheeks. They liked it. People liked colour. None of her black and white photos had provoked so much feedback over the years.

Grabbing her camera bag, April rushed to the photo shop and bought colour film. She strolled through the streets taking shots of red buses, winter blooms, florist windows, carpets and festive decorations.

She returned home and developed the films. Pleased with her work, she uploaded her favourite shots on the website, and collapsed on the bed with her clothes on.


In her dream, two critics stood before her photos, examining her work. A sophisticated man in a dark suit said, “Too colourful, almost blissful.” A young guy in a red jumper over ripped jeans replied, “What’s wrong with that? Life is dreary. Looking at vibrant pictures gives hope that it continues in its mysterious ways.”

April awoke with the words of the two men arguing in her head. Life is not black and white. It’s multi-coloured. An image of life should represent the entire spectrum, despite the odds.

The Reflection in the Mirror – by SEBNEM SANDERS

Many thanks to SickLit magazine for publishing my flash story. 🙂 ”



The Reflection In The Mirror


It didn’t begin in the elevator, but it started with the photograph taken in the elevator. My niece, Lara, sent me the picture from Berlin. The black and white shot could have been from a classy fashion magazine. A trendy couple, both wearing hats and dark sunglasses, and confidence clothes only young people look good in. Casually elegant, street-style, very Berlin.

I saved the photo and kept looking at it, until it dawned on me. The mobile snap summarized all my feelings. It was the reflection in the mirror, the split image on the right that showed her in two parts. In one portion, she’s half of a couple, in the other she’s following her dreams. This was my worry, what I wanted to say. Don’t stop chasing your personal goals. Don’t allow yourself to be submerged by your lover’s wants and needs. Don’t…

View original post 366 more words

Through The Wings of Time


, , , , , , , , , ,


The Persistence of Memory (Spanish: La persistencia de la memoria; Catalan: La persistència de la memòria) is a 1931 painting by artist Salvador Dalí, and is one of his most recognizable works.



This is a re-post of a flash story first published on the Harper Collins, Authonomy Blog.




One second more or less, will that make me richer or poorer in time? Yet, I happen to know decisions made in a split second, or perhaps, an incident that could occur in that time frame have the power to change  everything. I try so hard to capture or speed up time, but it has its own pace despite my wishes.

So, I dip into time and try to exercise timelessness. Schrodinger’s Cat in my mind, I go to places my limited intelligence cannot comprehend. The heart does, and gives me directions into my past lives beyond my current third dimensional reality.

I’m a pagan girl at a time not recorded in history. I go to Göbeklitepe and dance to the tune of songs, sung by the pilgrims who come to the temple to worship nature, its flora and fauna. Surrounded by huge columns, with birds and animals carved into their ancient stones, I make offerings to the Gods and thank them for my blessings. A soldier takes my hand, puts a wreath of flowers on my head. We leave the temple and he takes me to his tent in the nearby hills.

Time changes. I’m in Africa, by the river Nile, crying tears of sorrow for my beloved Pharaoh. He has been taken ill and my life is at a standstill. All the medicines in the world cannot cure his ailment. They have poisoned him. There’s no antidote. His child in my belly, the heir to be born. I’m their next target, once my beloved is gone. I cannot leave him on his own and run away yet, but I know a nomad village where my child and I will be safe.

I delve into Ramayana, in the temples of Bali, and run to the sea where I wash my soul. I go to India and swim with my friends in the waters of Ganges, continue to Nepal and become the lady who ages as she descends the mountain in The Lost Horizon.

A courtesan in the Ming court. A Japanese geisha in love with Shogun. An Aborigine girl around Ayer’s Rock. A Maui singer in the Pacific, and a Polynesian who falls in love with a white man in Tahiti. I move on to the Island of Maui and see the volcano erupt in Hawaii. Many perish, but I’m saved by the fishermen. I make my way to the Americas.

Inca, Aztec and Maya, I play ball in the courts of Chichen Itza. I move down south to Bolivia and Peru, and let the wise people guide me through their knowledge and magic revealed in the books of Castaneda.

I go on to Europe, move in the courts of Arthur, Ferdinand and Napoleon. Sometimes I’m a slave, sometimes a heretic they must burn, a princess, a courtesan, a peasant, a revolutionary or an ordinary wife, struggling to raise a family. My Harem days in the Ottoman Court, come with a big return. I’m the mother of the Sultan’s second heir to the throne.

Does time whisk me back or thrust me forward? In Eden, I meet my great, great, and I don’t know how many times great, Grandmother sitting under the apple tree. She’s weeping, but there’s still love in her heart for me because I’m her great, great, and I don’t know how many times great, Granddaughter. The invisible ties of my mother’s mitochondrial DNA bring me to my origins. She hugs me and I fall asleep, weary of my travels.

I wake before my alarm-clock goes off. I rise and look in the mirror. I see so many faces I do not know. I blink and rub my eyes. They disappear. I watch my reflection watching me, and ask, “Who am I?”


RIP, George Michael. :(


George Michael – Praying For Time Lyrics

These are the days of the open hand
They will not be the last
Look around now
These are the days of the beggars and the choosers
This is the year of the hungry man
Whose place is in the past
Hand in hand with ignorance
And legitimate excuses
The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But we’ll take our chances
Because god’s stopped keeping score
I guess somewhere along the way
He must have let us all out to play
Turned his back and all god’s children
Crept out the back door
And it’s hard to love, there’s so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it’s much too late
Well maybe we should all be praying for time
These are the days of the empty hand
Oh you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear twice a year
This is the year of the guilty man
Your television takes a stand
And you find that what was over there is over here 

So you scream from behind your door
Say “what’s mine is mine and not yours”
I may have too much but i’ll take my chances
Because god’s stopped keeping score
And you cling to the things they sold you
Did you cover your eyes when they told you

That he can’t come back
Because he has no children to come back for

It’s hard to love there’s so much to hate
Hanging on to hope when there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it’s much too late
So maybe we should all be praying for time

Songwriters: MICHAEL, GEORGE
Praying For Time lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.

Happy Winter Solstice, Season’s Greetings and Happy New Year! The Pomegranate Tree


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


The Pomegranate Tree

The crimson blossoms of

the pomegranate tree in springtime,

turn into magical red globes during summer,

giving us ample fruit with sparkling ruby seeds inside.

A treasure within a treasure,

a chest within a chest,

one that contains many,

each seed from the heavens,

a sacred gift of Mother Nature,

heralding prosperity, nourishment, and health.

Let’s tie many coloured ribbons on the tree of plenty

and make wishes for happiness, peace and oneness.

Although Saint Nicholas has his home in these lands,

he’s busy carrying gifts to other children around the world,

but will be here on the 31st to celebrate

New Year’s Eve.

Let’s hope our tree will attract

 the birds and creatures upon Gaia and

when the gathering is complete,

with a full audience,

we’ll crack the pomegranates on the ground,

spreading prosperity around the globe,

to all the children and people of the world.