Klash of the Konfessioners

From The Klash Archive- “Wings”

The first edition of Klash Blog  was accidentally deleted. We have tried to recompile those posts by digging into the email archives. Though  we could not find out who the winners  were, it was fun reading them once again. I hope you too will enjoy reading this.

This one on “wings” is possibly the First Klash dated August 2006.


Mandappa (103)

A misty morning
The calling skies
I try and try
But you can only hear my cries
Like you, now I wonder
Bout the gift of flight
For so many days mine,
But now just look at my plight
No rocket science for me this
My daily bread and butter
Success almost every time
But when failure hits, hear me whine
So far, far away for you
So mystical, so blue
I’ve never fantasized flying
It’s my gift, my life, that’s true
But how can I fly now
How can I fly so high
With these broken wings
Broken wings, I’m gonna die

Konfessioner Singh (54)

Silent rain softly falls,
wetting wings
of yellow butterflies
of speckled doves with black rings…
The seven sisters,
and the rude starlings…
Wetting paws,
that run over wet green grass
chasing dragonflies;
With rainbow wings.
Vast is the growling gray sky
and I never wanted to fly…
I just wanted a pair of wings.

Sarang Mahajan (119)

Not Just a Wing

‘Quiet,’ Shama hissed at his impish friends and fired stone into the tree.
Something came down.
‘Oh no, just the wing,’ complained Shama as they all gathered around.
Suddenly, a bright man clad in satin clothes appeared there from the woods. He picked up the wing carefully. ‘No, child,’ he said gently, ‘it’s actually a precious win.’
‘How?’ Shama doubted.
The man smiled. ‘It’s a wing that greets the rising sun and toils whole day through heat finding food for little beaks. It evades hawks and eagles, crosses raging storms and returns for the dependant ones.’
Shama’s catapult dropped down.
‘Take home your trophy, child.’ The man handed Shama the wing. ‘It’s a mother’s wing.’

Vicky M(32)

who sings when the birds die?
when the wings are clipped
the birds can’t fly
were these birds for the open sky
or grovel in the dust
as the tears i cry…

Amandeep Parmar(127)

The bright flower-print frock
Was wrapped and kept behind two wooden doors
She would open them every now and then
Stand in front of her mirror
Trying to shrink herself to its size
Her reflection smiling back to her

She flew with the breeze back then
Just like a candid butterfly
With wings of gold and an eternity to explore
Through a pair of sparkling watchful eyes
The dusk would rest in her bed
And the dawn would wake with her.

In the same flower print and long wavy hair
With her fragile self spread across her soft bed
With legs crossed and some pulp to engrave
She longs for just one more chance
Her little hands and vast blue sky
Another flight, and one more wing.

Truth Dude(60)

To challenge the most powerful
And fall in disgrace.

To write your own destiny
and rule in grace

To challenge authority
And not lose sight

Of the choices you make
And the power of flight

Indeed, in a cruel world
One needs to balance all things

And such is the tale of Lucifer…
the fallen angel and lose those wings.

DokSaab (69)

chirp.. chirp.. chirp..
Flutter.. flutter.. flutter..
I closed my novel
and turned around.
lying on the ground
was a small sparrow
pink, fragile, tender,
all skin, no feather.
she looked at me,
tears in her eyes,
(or was it my imagination?)
I picked her up,
on my palm.
She streched her arms
trying to fly
away to her nest
there were no feathers
on her juvenile wings


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