This weeks attempt at Bastet’s Shadorma photo prompt. A shadorma is composed of six non-rhyming lines (sestina or sextet) and the syllable pattern is 3-5-3-3-7-5.  It can have as many stanzas as you like, just as long as each stanza follows the syllable pattern mentioned above .



I say hi,

And you say hello,



Though the connection is slow,

Still I know your voice.


Moments pass,

And the sound is low,



Remembering all we were,

Still I know your voice,


Minutes gone,

Memories remain,



Did we ever want the same,

Still I know your voice.

First Love

first loveOriginal Photo : http://www.flickr.com/photos/katietegtmeyer/73056234

I still feel the loss,

Of the first taste of love,

And some mornings wake,

With an ache for what was,

In dreams he’s the lover,

Who opens my eyes,

The rescuer, the protector,

The truth without lies,

He’s sometimes the Pirate,

The Lord or the Squire,

Sometimes the Rock Star,

Or protection for hire,

He’s never the villain,

The dark shadowed foe,

But always the hero,

Whose face that I know,

And whenever I’m lost,

Or fear I could fall,

I dream of my first love,

And I’m not lost at all.


clown 2


Original Photo : www.flickr.com/photos/itsastarklife/6870206600


Sometimes a look,

Can say more than a word,

When a silent rebellion,

Is fighting to be heard,


Sometimes a smile,

A chameleon’s disguise,

Is shown on the outside,

But not in the eyes,


Sometimes a touch,

Can scorch under skin,

Concealed limitations,

That burn from within,


Sometimes a fear,

Can wrap around souls,

Confined aspirations,

Unbreakable walls,


Sometimes the friend,

Is the stranger we know,

And the peace that we see,

Is the war they don’t show.

Mr Cockdiddlers School For Quiet Young Ladies

Time again for Friday Fictioneers. Hosted every week by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and eagerly anticipated by over 100 addictive contributors. A 100 word piece of fiction based on the photo prompt provided. Follow the link and have a go,


The door behind her opened and a familiar scent of leather and musk infused the warm evening air,

“Breathe, just breathe” trying to stop the suffocating blackness from wrapping round her chest. She did an internal checklist – Feet the required distance apart, hands palm down, thumbs parallel to the leather inlay, not touching. Never touching.

As always, the ink pot was her focal point. Like a bottomless lagoon, swirling, churning, seeping over the quill, until she was far, far away.

It ended. The door closed. Taking out her handkerchief, she wondered how many others had fallen into that same velvet lagoon over the years.