I write because I read. I read because I write.
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.
—
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.
—
murderer. i am a
murderer of eight.
eight innocent
lives my hands
without green
thumbs have ended
the purple garden
of eight eggplants.
i was 15. since
then i’ve not
tried to get my fingers
dirty, afraid to be
a murderer for the
ninth time.
—
screeching tires
roared back to life
running away from
fuming wife,
leaving minty
toothpaste uncapped,
garlic burnt
with bitter bite,
lockdown birthing
silly fights.
yet once the stars
start blending the night,
wheels will return
to arms so light,
hush, hush,
let’s not fight.
—
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.
—
A peaceful Sunday,
watching
queen sun’s
everyday bowing,
with a shaken call,
soul-stirring words,
i learned of
your sudden passing,
premature, it is,
a thief of sonnets I did
not see coming,
with a holed heart
I ache for your pen’s rash
drying.
—
A poem I wish I never had to write for my Rodnoy, my big brother, the classic poet, Instagram’s @elusive.illusion. Rest in peace, in bliss, with so much love. 😦
—
(revolving earth
undresses, each
season unravels)
spring, peeler of
silent blue winter,
blush in pastel young
blooms, will then
succumb to laughing
rays of golden sun,
salted seas curdle
to scarlet red as
autumn conquers
the rusting lawns,
(revolving earth
undresses, each
season unravels)
—
December streets twinkling
sprinkled earth-based stars,
children giggling
despite knees’ scars,
gold bells singing
with wooden guitars,
sweet smiles brimming
over jovial jars,
30,000 flying,
I watch for afar,
our planet glow-
ing ‘bove hate’s ashen char,
hope, faith, joy fill-
ing Christmas’ delivery car.
—
