
sing to me Polaris’ song
steady, constant of the north.
show my midnight lullaby
softly rocking, back and forth.
see the map on my pillow
salted as sunbathing seas.
shoo my fears, shoo them for me.
—
I write because I read. I read because I write.
sing to me Polaris’ song
steady, constant of the north.
show my midnight lullaby
softly rocking, back and forth.
see the map on my pillow
salted as sunbathing seas.
shoo my fears, shoo them for me.
—
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.
—
rolled sunset crawls
to kiss whale’s home,
persimmon spilled.
wilted leaves arch
towards foliage tomb,
autumn fulfilled.
cold keys hang
void of fingers, warm,
bite the seed of hope
will it burst some
bitter crumb?
consider the possibility
of wings once
our breaths
succumb
—
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.
—
More than a year I have been living inside this box with no divisions. Cream borders keep me company without judging my daily dancing alone and my full-hearted concerts on my own.
Identical squared-rooms from my right and left stood the same size as mine. The closest left one is usually abandoned, an Airbnb available online. The room directly on my right has been occupied by another breath just a couple of weeks ago. We share the same rightful owner, but we remain nameless faces, after coming across each other once.
Wide glass window panes
taste the same April sky’s rage,
walls cage alien guests.
—
Five decades of wandering, in every step perhaps your heels planted seedlings of words, of love, of wisdom, of life. So much of your history remains a hidden story. We’re you a slave, a samurai, a cook, a poet, or everything and more? We can read scrolls after scrolls but never can we know.
A beautiful name you gifted yourself, Basho, after your beloved word-artist Li Po which carries the tart taste of a white plum. But no, plum did not win over your favourite plant — banana. In 17 syllables you have transformed a pair of cotyledons to a blooming spring’s cherry blossom of poetry. Until Autumn came to dry your ink in a field of golden, lifeless weeds.
short fifty years of
singing cuckoos, sorrowed snows,
timeless lines remain.
—
wild embers
die trying
the fourth estate
and still i rise.
—
April air reeks
of unperfumed killer
floating with spring,
bobbing as
daffodils sing,
there goes selfish
whims ransacking
shelves of kindness,
in a bid to survive
hunger for toilet
paper arrived,
common sense of
supposed “high-
er beings” flushed,
hummingbirds, sparrows,
laugh at us.
—