
once smooth as petals
will shrink into a crumpled
autumn leaf, waiting
for annual earth’s melting to
fertilise spring’s kids.
—
I write because I read. I read because I write.
once smooth as petals
will shrink into a crumpled
autumn leaf, waiting
for annual earth’s melting to
fertilise spring’s kids.
—
earth’s coating on late autumn (a
yard of naked trees open for the
early frost) not death but a promise
stamped on your irises’ bows.
—
i wish i’ve puppy-paws
to dig through the muck
of this year.
i wish i’ve puppy-eyes
to bend my
Master’s will.
i wish i’ve a puppy-nose
to smell happiness
from a mile.
i wish i need not
to wish for a real,
real smile.
—
there is a painting
outside my window,
hell magneting
the day sun’s glow.
stain of last night
rests on my pillow—
my unraveling
with moonlight’s bow.
feels a few feet from
my reach, the sky,
if only dusk can
give me wings to fly.
—
BEFORE
voice can be
from the rolling of your
fearless tongue or from
the scribbling of your
shaky fingers. neither
is greater, as long
as they are yours.
yours. yours. from
the ripples of your
chest, their waves
can stir one heart
to move from the
dark west to a
brighter south.
because your
words are power.
you are.
AFTER
voice rolls like a red-
carpet tongue, plants
hope like a green-
thumbed gardener.
neither is greater, as
long as they are yours.
yours. yours. chest
ripples. stirring boats
of breath away from
the midnight west
towards the dawning
south. your words
are power. you are.
—
ebb and flow goes
the salty, blue sea,
how many seashells has
it robbed from thee?
may they be conch filled
with your childhood dreams,
or the prayers of your
aged-mind’s streams,
may they be shell-hearts
you’ve always long to hold,
too sharp to touch,
too tough to mold,
or perhaps a silent wish
your tongue not dared say,
with dark whispers saying
“it’s far as night and day”.
but ebb and flow goes
the salty, blue sea,
the waves will form and
foam to surprise thee.
in this life, i’ve learned,
what’s meant to be yours
will always find its way back
to your waiting, wheat shores.
sit by the sand,
sip some warm tea,
remember. this waiting
will shape who you’ll be.
—
fingers bumbling on
blank spaces of both
the web and the tree’s skin.
grabbing yellows from
bumblebees to paint
sunsets where freedom wins.
stirring orange from
dawn to make a cup
of giggling cinnamon.
stealing sweetness
from apple’s bum—
to have some sanity won.
—
choir of crickets hum
tonight’s final song, a clown
sheds its mask, alone.
—
Silence has always tasted sweet since I was a young boy. I find bliss in building a world of my own, alone. Now, with only the whirring of her ventilator, my tongue is filled with bitter gourd juice, swimming through the boulder inside my throat.
Her hands, I’ve held since she was 24, feel cold against my wrinkled touch. Her lungs ceased breathing. Her kidneys rested. Her once soft lips, mummed with tubes.
When it is over, said and done, it was a time, and there was never enough of it.
I would give everything just to hear her laugh again.
—
brown, a burnt one, is the colour
of this table with edges as perfect
as the borders of some nations
with OCD in geometry, atop there are
tea, two types, the calming chamomile
i take during those days of the month
because it helps relieve the cruel
clenching of my ovary, and there is
green tea to cheer up my gut—
digest, digest, digest, faster,
faster, faster. i remember, my feet
as pink as a newborn mouse, a sign
of its tiredness carrying the excess
number on the weighing scale.
since fourth grade. i learned
that fat and beautiful is never
used in one sentence.
i think i need a cup of chamomile now.
—