Skip to main content

PURPLE CARNIVAL



On a clear Autumn evening, I'm a whole lot differently in love with the splash of feeble purple on the dusking skies, a hybrid of Lavender laced with Heather. 

It's a garden of blooms with streaks of Fuchsia and Mulberry, a medley of regalia.

A pale Violet is the the vintage elegance of my timeless sundress as I twirl away to my heart's content, the cares of the world jettisoning away on the puffs of dandelions. 

Plum is the zing of the freshness a wine ushers in on a barbeque evening. The seasonal blueberry ice cream bars with drizzles of Lilac are the cool respite I look forward to with a side of Grape sorbet !

Byzantine is a powerful stance as I hold my audience captive. 

An incandescent Mauve is soothing with a tone and forthcoming promises. 

A lustrous Amethyst Rose Quartz dangling on my bracelet is the crystal of my choice dazzling my Crown Chakra. 

Periwinkle is a whisper of a charming desire of the heart.

Iris, although dainty, exudes confidence rooted and balanced. 

Cornflower and Orchid blended in an encrusted tiara marks a gorgeous splendor. .

Wisteria is an enigma yet speaks to my soul, is in sync with my heartbeat and a cosmic serenade we had promised each other. 

All the moods and hues of purple are sacred, an aura radiating Sapphire dust.

A purple jamboree is in my stride , humming and waltzing into the groove of a silvery moonlit night of the deepest Indigo empyrean.


Image Courtesy: Pinterest 

https://www.theblogchatter.com/user/blogrolls/submitted


Top post on Blogchatter

Comments

  1. I would pick orange, and perhaps some light brown, for myself. The end of autumn in the forests of Pennsylvania.
    I'm dropping by to wave hello. 🙋‍♂️
    "Old wood best to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust, and old authors to read." — Athenaeus


    J (he/him 👨🏽 or 🧑🏽 they/them) @JLenniDorner ~ Speculative Fiction & Reference Author and Co-host of the April Blogging #AtoZChallenge international blog hop

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Hello J Lenni Dorner 🙋🏻‍♀️
      So grateful that you read my blog hop 🙏🏻💜

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

CHAPTER 1: THE JADE SHAMBHALA

This post is Chapter 1 of short story series titled The Jade Shambhala. Tasseography is as old as time. The stories in the tea leaves will leave you in a spin, while the healing tea that precedes it anchors you like gripping oak roots. Every day for the next seven days, Xiu-Ying will welcome a new traveler seeking refuge from their heavy burdens, reading their futures in the settled leaves and guiding them toward peace as the seasons shift on the ridge. Welcome to The Jade Shambhala Tea House!                               CHAPTER 1                            EARLY SPRING  Ko-San Tê Bai Mudan (White Peony and Red Dates) The morning mist in the rolling hills of the 1980s Taiwanese countryside did not rise; it dissolved, burning away into thin silver threads under the persistent warmth of the early spring sun.  The Yun-Shan Ridge grew f...

CHẠ̀WKHRĀW (Chxw̒kh rxw̒)

  As usual, at the dot of 8 pm, the Guzheng plays its stirring chords, the haunting notes beginning a slow sweep, rising to a powerful crescendo and alternating with a tranquil ebbing of melody surfing me along the waves of soul-stirring, yet a serene stretch of an hour every day.  I make it a point to sit right beside my dining room window to bask in this lulling sound therapy as my neighbor downstairs diligently plays on this zither, oblivious to my admiration. What a luxury it is to have a live orchestra while I savour the last meal of the day. It's a welcome distraction to the otherwise jarring squabbling of the playful neighbourhood children.  The Chạ̀wkhrāw of this– that the musical household might move one day is a foreboding thought. Foreshadowing this, deeply ingrained in me is the shattering news I had received upon returning to Singapore after an 8 month absence here.  The Ramadan festive season was fast approaching at the end of March but the apar...

HIRAETH

Most rainy afternoons make me jog down memory lane, to the rhythm of the downpours that cascades down in sheets. And I slacken to the percussion of the raindrops tapping against my window pane. Flashes of memories of the halcyon days of the mid 1970’s come back to find me, to haunt me like mists hanging heavy and still. My only solace at this juncture are my vintage albums. The windows to the past and my very own time machine.  Mulling over the pictures, I pen her a tribute: Once upon a time, there was a time when photos were Black & White, Monochrome, Sepia But the trees in your backyard were a much Idyllic Green--Verdant, Jade, and Lime. The fire in your hearth, a sunset Orange--red-hot, Amber and glimmering as you stoked it. The skies, immensely boundless, a much Pristine Blue--Cornflower, Sapphire and Azure, As you pointed out to me the floating frothy clouds, the eagles gliding with their fanned out wings; Or the occasional lone airplane soaring dominantly, a tiny speck hi...

CHAPTER 2: THE JADE SHAMBHALA

      This is a part of a short story series titled The Jade Shambhala. 7 days, 7 stories, 7 different exotic tea blends from the Far East and unique tea leaves reading for each. Welcome to the tea house!                             CHAPTER 2                      LUNAR NEW YEAR          Kim-huan Tê ( Golden Lily Oolong) The early spring air hanging over Sian-Phô village was heavy, smelling faintly of spent sulfur from the Lunar New Year firecrackers and the cold, sharp scent of wet pine needles.  Up on the Yun-Shan Ridge, the festive red lanterns hanging from the eaves of the low wooden cottages were damp and water-logged, their brilliant scarlet dye bleeding slowly into the persistent gray mountain mist. The holiday had just ended, and while the rest of the village was settling into the quiet hope of a new agricultural...

QUEST FOR THE BEARS (DAY 18, LETTER Q)

                      CHAPTER 17             QUEST FOR THE BEARS  The next day, the pigs trotted off to spread mischief in the woodland, their ricky-ticky steps scuffing the damp path into a mess of overturned leaves and broken twigs. Goldwynn stayed crouched behind the wonky rain barrel until the sound of their pig-trouble thinned, then thinned again, then dissolved into the larger quiet of the trees. She didn’t move right away. The woods had a way of listening after the pigs left, as if it wasn’t sure they were truly gone. The air held its breath with her. When she finally stood, the silence felt heavier than noise. No birds called. The light came down in broken pieces, the sun playing hide-and-seek through beech and alder, dappling the forest floor with spools of pale gold. The ground under her boots was soft and cold, a black earth that smelled of truffles gone to rot and old rain. It stuck to ...