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Your Presence

I can still hear your laugh and see your joy

I know that you are there somewhere, my friend

Wherever I turn, you are in my eyes

And our friendship warms my heart

I see you in the clouds which are ready to cry

In the thousand drops of rain

In the many winds that crash against the oaks

And in the chime of the church bells.

You meant a lot to me, yes, you did.

When I saw dark clouds in my sky,

You were my silver lining.

Times have come and gone

And people have changed

But things were always the same for us.

You came into my life

Like the spring breeze of April

Like the scarlet of the crimson roses

Like a pleasant siesta dream

But where are you now?

Oh! Do give me a notion

I know that you are there somewhere

Your presence I can feel

And your memories bring me joy

But ‘somewhere’ is a long distance,

Somewhere among the clouds

Somewhere across the seven seas

Somewhere in the constellations

Like a glowing ball of fire

Still showing me the right way.

When will I join you?

This waiting is long

And patience I have not

Today, as I walk to the cemetery,

You remind me of the roses at your grave.

I know you are aware

Of the loneliness I felt after your death

I’m impatiently waiting

To fly to the clouds,

To sail across the seven seas

And to meet you at the end of constellations

‘Coz you were everything to me.

1. The wind speaks today

of stories untold, unheard

Like a baby’s first eyes


2. The unicorn shines

in the velvet moonlight

singing a song lost



Show – Don’t Tell Exercise —- ‘ Jane was angry with her father.’

Her eyes were wide open, her lips small like a pencil line, starring with a clenched feast at her 77-year old dad, who just smashed like a kid’s puzzle the most beloved piece of art of her half a million dollar worth collection of chinaware from the Ming Dynasty. “Sorry, Jane”, stumbled her dad, “but I didn’t see the ball of little Jack on the floor and just felt over it, right into this beautiful vase.” “Really sorry, Dear”, was he saying with a desperate and whispering voice one more time, before he lost his balance again – this time for the last time.


 Haiku ~

1) TIME 

The clock is ticking

My mind is deeply swinging

To the sounds of time!


The harder I fall

The faster my heartbeat goes

The more I love life!



Water runs downwards

The wind strongly blows upwards

Fire warms my heart!


Alliteration poem using the letter “C”
By Shauna and Aisha
Carrie consumed coffee and croissants at the Columbia Cafe on a clear corner.
Craving coffee constantly.
Climbing to catch a cup of coffee, Carrie crashed.
Cruel caffeine.
Careless copious cups; a calamity for cool Carrie.
“Couldn’t coffee be caffeine-free?”, considered Carrie.
Costly cups continuously cascading cross the counter.
“Courage and cappuccinos!”, cried Carrie.

Birthday Greetings  

As themes show signs of natures stay,

And times propitious dates hold sway,

The evidence augurs your bloom,

From sculptured years that now have hewn

A shapened belle upon a theme,

Appears today, your beauty’s seam,

Enjoined! auspicious perfect pair,

The past, has futured you so fair.


Your Visions Standing Here

Mine eyes beheld your beauty,

My thoughts remember how,

Your loveliness I cherish,

Where ever you are now,

And in my heart I know you,

Always to be near,

Because your vision glories,

My picture of you clear,

And while this life we passage,

Your bloom will help me bear,

My feelings for you, waiting,

Until your standing here.


He sits on a bed, in an unfamiliar motel room. His body is riddled with exhaustion. His head throbs as the rain gently pelts the window. He’s been feeling like this, scattered, for a while. His eyes slide closed, like shutters, as he rests his head against the wall. That’s when he hears it. The incessant sound of a typewriter. It’s coming from the room next door. He can feel the vibrations through the thin wall. Smoke seeps through the heating vent beside the bed. It doesn’t trouble him, though. He’s focusing on the typewriter, trying to decipher every word. He can’t. And honestly, he doesn’t want to. He’d rather not, as to not influence what he, himself, writes. The vacancy sign outside his window casts an eerie glow upon his face. The flickering is hypnotic, and the sound of the typewriter has become like a lullaby. Slumped against the wall, his body relaxes as he finally falls asleep.

He’s pulled awake by the sudden silence. He peels his body from the bed, wondering what time it is. Wiping the drool from his chin, he reaches for the clock. 5 A.M.. This reminds him of her tattoo, “The nights are for poets and mad men.” That cursive handwriting of hers, snaking its way up her thigh. As the memory flits through his mind, he hears a smile. He turns to look at the wall. He wonders if it could be her, sitting in the room next to his. He’s never known her to be the girl next door. She holds far more appeal. Sitting on the edge of his bed, running his hands through his hair, he hears a door open. Moments later, a folded newspaper is slid under his door. He saunters over and picks up the paper. Right there, circled in a red marker, is the classified section. But, there is only one entry, “An open letter to a future lover”. He stands there, reading. And while he reads, a light comes on behind him as the ‘No’ is illuminated on the vacancy sign outside.

Alliteration Poem – by Nadia and Renjith
The cat’s charisma was contagious,
Climbing up the cupboard, all courageous.
His confidence coupled with creativity…
She couldn’t control herself, caught off-guard by her curiosity.

Alliteration Poem -Rohini and Muneera

Castle Alliteration

Castles are curiously creative and have crenalated cast of character.

Castles quietly keep coffins and corpses, yet incorporate a classy, capricious and capable character.

Castles carry a culture quite clumsy and cluttered.

Castles in clouds however, collapse ‘coz cloud castles can’t carry confetti

A BWC Creative Workshop Exercise

Secreted from the underbelly of the moth caterpillar called Bombyx mori, it sat in suspension for thirty-five days, a single filament one and half kilometres long. The cocoon was plunged into a hot bath to loosen the glue that held the threads together. Then it was cooled so that this thread could be unravelled. The caterpillar died in the process. That fine single strand of silk, for which a life was sacrificed, then joined three other martyrs to form a thread of one of the finest, most prized fibres in the world.

It shone in the light with a gentle glow, blushing as each of its minute three-sided faces caught a sunbeam that exposed its lissom length and supple sinews. It glowed as a moonbeam caressed its tresses. And it stretched in pleasure almost to its tensile limit pleased at its own resilience as one of the strongest natural filaments in the world. Its pride was short-lived.

Before it could revel in its own existence, the thread was trapped. Caught and wound into a skein. Then, enslaved in a ring, the yarn was packed off to a fabled land, Turkey. Here in the dyer’s harem the skein lost the innocent cream of its youth and was plunged into an indigo dye.

The indigo whispered its own sad story of capture, beatings and torture. The two strangers in a strange land wept and embraced each other. As their tears mingled the indigo imbued the silk with the softest, most beautiful hue of sorrow – blue; the kind that shines bravely in the sun and glistens pensively in the moonlight.

Today, a three denier thread of that silk waits suspended, rigid with fear, as a lady’s fingers clutch its neck and aim to push it into the oval eye of a sharp metal spike. At the last moment the thread flinches and dodges the eye of the needle.

The lady looks at the thread, then gently slides it over her tongue. The wet muscular rough appendage arouses an old memory – the glue that once held each strand tight and safe in that cocoon of the Bombyx mori caterpillar so long ago. The recollection makes all three deniers cling to each other now stiff with anticipation as they fly through the eye of the needle. It is threaded.

And the slavery of the silk is complete as the metal spike pulls all three strands together through the squared fabric to form a blue daisy in the lady’s embroidery. The silk sighs as it succumbs to its eternal punishment, forever bent, never free to flow and dance in the light again except in minute parts of its length as it weeps across the tapestry.

May 2012

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