Bibble Babble

 This is a short story I wrote when I was bored. 

Bibble Babble

By: Kaayana Sharma

“Bonjour! Hola! Namaste! Ni hao!”

Meena was unimpressed. “Done?” she asked with a sigh.

They were sitting in the Cockatoo Café. Meena had ordered them two coffees and the two parrots were having a chat. 

“I know it in three more languages. But I guess I shouldn’t show too much of my genius in one go.” Bibble fluffed his feathers a bit. 

“Bib, you aren’t concentrating on school. Instead, you’re pouring over stupid human books,” Meena said in disgust. 

“Oh, school is quite useless. With my knowledge, I could even live in the human world,” Bibble said proudly. 

The diners were now silent, listening to their argument with interest. 

“Bibble,” said Meena, sounding thoroughly exasperated by now. “Blabbering in different languages will not get you anywhere!” 

But Bibble just smiled. “Oh Meena, don’t be jealous, I’ll teach you some languages too.”

Meena groaned and huffed so loudly that some parrots drinking their coffee at the other end of the café looked up to see what was so terribly wrong. 

“You’re hopeless,” Meena hissed. 

But Bibble just kept on grinning.

The End

Piano’s life

This poem is a limerick that I based on my piano.  When COVID first started, I didn't play the piano much, it sat alone day after day until I was assigned a piano teacher. Then I thought about how a piano must feel. I hope you enjoy my poem!

Piano’s life

I am a grand piano, as beautiful as can be,

I have sparkling, clean, black and white keys,

I can be as rhythmic as the sea,

Or as unconfined as a bird that’s free,

Plink! Plank! Ploonk! Are the words I say,

I belong to the keyboard family and there I shall stay,

I am a blank canvas and do as you may,

(Please play Fur Elise on your way,

That definitely is my personal fav. )

I bide my time by sitting all day, 

When my person forgets to practice, I go kinda cray-cray,

My person has found a new instrument which she strummed today,

I need to be tuned which my person forgot to do,

And boy, I need to use the loo,

Why didn’t they put me next to the bathroom,

Now I will be in forever gloom,

Because I can never,

Ever

Not for a moment,

On no account,

Ever,

Ever,

No, never

The Diary

 The Diary

There is a life inside me,

Just not my own,

There is a world inside me,

That will remain unknown, 

So many words, 

Written but hardly read,

So many words,

That will never be said,

She has a story inside,

Which she trusts me with,

A world in her mind,

That will remain a myth,

She had hope and a wish,

But she let it all go,

She let go of that fire, that spark, that glow,

Before our bond was strong and sturdy,

It never loosened, or quavered,

I am now covered in dust and forgotten,

Our friendship is gone and wavered,

But today is the day,

She is going to remember with a start,

Her wondrous writing,

When she wrote from the heart,

I can feel it,

She’s going to pick me up and recall,

All the good times in her diary,

Before her fall,

Maybe now I won’t be quite so worthless,

Maybe now I’ll finally serve my purpose.

Final Warning

 Change of plans, I'll let you think of the answers to my Philosophies poem. Here's a different poem from the point of view of a wave :

Final Warning

I crash and come back,

Like a rhythmic dance,

My victims can live or they don’t have a chance,

When they drown in my riptide,

I don’t give a second glance,

They were asking for this hate,

When they threw trash in my waters,

They were destined for this fate, 

When they cast nets and sent my fish to slaughter, 

I’m tired of preening and cleaning after them, 

Can you just stop?
You know it’s hurting me,

You know it's hurting our beautiful sea,

Yes, “our sea” we share it, 

It’s not hard to admit, 

Look around you, the sea we share, 

The sea for which you don’t seem to care, 

If you don’t change your ways, beware, 

If the ocean isn’t your friend, you won’t be spared, 

I, The Waves, will not be so nice, 

I will rise, 

When away goes the ice, 

All your spite and hate come with a price. 

The ocean will rise and so will I, 

But this time, we won’t be an ally.

This time, humans will be the ones to say goodbye.

Philosophies

Is there a certain question that you think about every day?

 A question that isn't exactly answerable? Some seek out the secrets of the universe (me).

 Others think about little wonders that most people don't think about until they are reminded (also me).

 This poem will share some of my questions that are deemed unanswerable. 

Philosophies

How can a bird fly with the fear of being hunted?

How far can you go before you are confronted?

What do you do when you fail to meet the unwritten expectations?

What alibi do you have when you are accused without explanation?

Not a day goes by before I think of these curiosities, 

These inquiries, these questions, the answers to these philosophies. 

The Eagle's Call

Eagle's Call

Drowning out the lion's roar, 

As an eagle flies toward the shore, 

Sailing on the wind over the ocean, 

And opens his beak in one quick, swift motion, 

He closes his eyes and lets the sound travel through him,

As the moon sinks down and begins to grow dim, 

The eagle's call, the call of peace,

The eagle's call brings opportunity 

https://www.audubon.org/field-guide/bird/bald-eagle

The Smell of the Morning.

Have you ever thought of the smell of the morning? Or about the smell of the rising sun. Wait a minute; the sun doesn't have a smell, does it? Well, scientifically, no. But, in poetry, a comet can have a smell if you just imagine. This is my interpretation of the smell of the morning:                                 

                                    The Smell of the Morning

The smell of the morning, 

The dew on the grass, 

It smells of the rains that silently passed, 

The smell of the sun, 

Of resting bread dough, 

The heart of a flame, 

From where a fire grows

The smell of fresh color, 

On the newly-painted home, 

The metallicity of the smell stands out,

Like a lone garden gnome, 

In a pitiful fairy garden, 

The smell of breakfast, 

Wafting through the breeze, 

Of pancakes and bacon, 

Just out of reach

The light of the morning,

The moon’s last beam, 

It allows the sun to wake you up from this dream