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Hoping for a Carousel of Sweet Promises

Manatita is an esteemed author living in London, UK. He writes spiritual books, flash fiction and esoteric poetry, his favourite genre.

Inspired by Bill Holland's 'Artistry with Words.'


The ambience is draped in a tapestry of darkness.

Scattered crows embrace a mind frightened by

Overcast shadows, echoing fears of another ‘lockdown.’

My heart weeps, looking at a misty tomorrow,

While the pain of another separation from loved

Ones, plays havoc with the colours of my optimism.

An avalanche of gremlins and ghosts, control the

Energy from my radio, T.V, and within the cobwebs

Of Zuckerberg’s well spurned meshes of spiders.

Layers upon layers envelop me; I’m cloaked in a

Melancholy of foreboding --a blanket of loneliness, making

It difficult to see the moon and twinkling stars at twilight.

My soul is anything but uplifting, as I sink in a pool

Of useless thoughts, a bleak winter no comfort to my

Despair, as Matt Hancock cast doubts on my family re-union.

It is only seven days to the future --that bright star of

Bethlehem of Judea. Magi’s are exalting the name of

The one called Christ! Yet my mood is still anxious, as

A corona nemesis, inches ever closer to my neighbourhood.


I long to do the things that evoke Love; beauty –to shake

Hands, to hug, to kiss; to indulge in a bit of ping-pong intricacy.

Instead, I keep wearing the filtered N94 mask, as my emotions

Shed tears and I keep hearing the cliché of hands, face … space.

Anguish carves itself in a head asking questions,

As my soul becomes solemn with sorrow. I’m in a

Place of hopelessness, cold within as the chill that hits

Me; my hope’s a candle that wanes and flickers in the breeze.

I walk out with a take-away, from my once neighbourly café,

As fellow humans avoid me, not before the black-white electronic

Dots scan my details, to ensure I’m available, for contact tracing.

I walk past a homeless woman, sitting in the cold, boxed-up

And blanketed against nature’s anger, a black drizzle tugging

At her heart of beauty. I hand her the coffee and Bakewell

Tart I’d promised her, as I head for the supermarket one last time.

Rosana, all masked up at 82, forces her way to the front of a

Queue at Morrison’s, clutching her three-wheeled frame. Her

Collie follows her, wagging its tail, her only solace as she looks

Up to the firmament, her Heart filled with the seeds of prayer.

Life goes on though, and while a Tsunami of challenging waves

Resonate from all directions, she even manages to exit with Ferrero

Rocher, a gift for her gran-daughter, in this new world of turbulence.

She heads home, knowing that the smile of love from her daughter

Would greet her, even as she listens to the nightly news, hoping for a

Cessation of storms; of brighter tomorrows, a new radiance walking

On dawns, and a Carousel of sweet promises for Christmas and Beyond.

- Lantern Carrier. 16th December, 2020



Wisdom from the Master

"Hope knows no fear

Hope dares to blossom

Even inside the abysmal abyss.

Hope secretly feeds

And strengthens Promise." - Sri Chinmoy

Artistry With Words | Helping writers to spread their wings and fly - Bill Holland

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