Wonderful Words

From February

Viraji Ogodapola
Scrittura
3 min readMar 14, 2024

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Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Your voice was here. Commanding to take some action — about getting lost. In the maze — we traversed together. Loud and clear, the voice. Pushy, a little. In my head.

We took the train — of thoughts — crossing lanes, hoarding memories. Then halted short — of blissful happy endings.

Tip toed fallacies of legacies lived well. In the pretext of beings we are not. Feed the fire, so to get burnt. By flames.

“I’m ready, now ” — for the change.

Now don’t let that get into the head. Yours or mine.

©March, 2024

Here we are celebrating the best of Scrittura in February 2024!
As always, the challenge is to be able to mercilessly slay down a few wonderful words so as to let some others in — and, to not let those words get into our heads in the process!

Do enjoy the best of Scrittura from the shortest month with an extra day!

- Scrittura Editorial Team (Zay, Ann, Samantha and Viraji).

’s Picks:

Luceo Non Uro by

her stage was set. Our stories don’t resolve
as easily as writers would believe.
What do you do when every hope dissolves
like ashes on the wind? How do you leave
with nothing in your hands? No hearth or home,

Dark Side of Your Heart by

Is the side of the moon
that is rumored to be dark
also cracked
like the calcification
of hope meandering
through the veins of my heart?

Poet for Hire: Pay What You Like by

no more than a puppet entwined in a perplexing plot I’m a wooden writer playing along on someone else’s stage

Strings subtly sway silently steering my steps in serendipitous scripted scenes the hand who writes is no more than a gun-for-hire marionette in the drama of everyday dalliances

’s Picks:

I am a cowboy of liminal space by

my mind can be so thin
it hides in a haiku line
or so vast
it can sit down and snuff out the flames of Dante
or make Milton quite lost

Déjà senti by

I am a waif.
the sad last star of dawn
that wanes into the blue
to rise in darkness.

When Did He Lose Her by

Across the room, arranging two cups on saucers, the Poet registers the screech but first goes on spooning honey, mesmerized by golden hues and impractical thoughts of bees flirting with flowers.

’s Picks:

The Wound Nearly Killed Me by

found the right people
to help scoop me off the floor

Basking by

yet back in the french quarter
it’s all mudslide hymns
paralyzed by holy water

A Nutcracker Nightmare by

Fingers glide across fifty-two
ivory knights to strike the sharps
as she enters the stage under
faint pink lights in a violet tutu.

’s Picks:

The Tangled Net by

My hands fist in the sand, the tiny grains grating against my skin. How long has it taken for these rocks to reach such minute sizes? How many years have they held out against the world?

Alone you come, alone you go by

Alone you come, alone you go
Alternating friendships with a pet
One day he goes forlorn
You pick yourself up and move on

Coffee and Butter and Gin by

the coffee is hot, to melt butter in.
Sugar to taste. Our sorrow God knows,
if the sun sets outside, the shadow within,

the sound of the thaw climbing under our skin.
Our laughter unravels, our secrets expose,
When we add to the coffee and butter, our gin.

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Viraji Ogodapola
Scrittura

ashes dusted away in morph, in that moment next I’d be.. for now, here I am, grappling in just being..