Do you remember

Oh, when the sweets of Mexico
touch your frivolous mouth,
do you remember me?
That carnival where I believed we were meant to be.

Oh, when the sand drifts and settles on your sandals,
and sticks between your toes,
do you remember us?
The uncomfortable hardships we went through – or was that not you?

Sometimes, when the gust of winds
shatter through the drunken front door,
I remember you. I wonder
If you still love playing the futile games against the fate of things,
If you still love that bitter, numbing taste of soiled liquor,
If you still love the petty power from picking neighborhood fights,
If you still love that all more than
Family we made. Do you remember
20-something years ago.


The sounds in silence

Walking through the shivering snow, they stop

in their tracks, turn back, at the sound of silent streams

down snow-dew cheeks.


When family gathered, regardless of strife,

to gather the white blanket of quiet, wide-eyed wonder that was you.

a part of us; you suddenly

cried with an open mouth and silence loud enough for all who knew.


When on savoured sixteenth, that youthful crush thought they could

match that rebellious glow in your eyes, your wild lopsided energy, your tumultuous laughter that

rumbled through your statement fashion, with bold words of theirs to take your hand

that day; but met were they with your angry misunderstood tears

that you shed somewhere   beyond their sight


When on that buzzing meadow, she looked at you

hands clasped tight with your growing juvenile love,

eyes tight with unshed brimming;

is it of joy, of missing her, of growing up, of starting something new?

you fill before you’ve even said your vows.

They always said you were a future child.


When between those tired layers of white-

washed plates of neglected food, he looked at you from the corner

of his eye, and noticed you let a stray salty drop dribble

down the side of your eyes to the pillows of the hospital home,

that you thought that nobody could see, behind

your weak smile and now tender limbs

which said the words you could no longer say.


When on that morn, and the snow drifted hard,

stilled all those who gathered to lament,

stilled their silent tears for all those that you never yet got to shed.


Oh! Do they turn back to bittersweet sounds of nostalgia.

Echoing time

What should one do when time echoes back to you


During salty days when streetlight gave warmth of clearity

thinking back… to hours darkened from light afternoons that you couldn’t enjoy,

stress breaking through frosty broken pipes, lined with winter’s

birthday you know you won’t spend like memories but

holding on nor letting go makes you the culprit, oh

foolish me, take back the hints

and burn them into ashes for the ocean below,

because apologies for the late comprehension,

my thoughts are forever with you and my words

forever scattered across those aged days, mapped out

in puzzle pieces you will never endeavour to find

And me, mind entangled and lassoed with weltered sincerity of the carcass of a


It’s the other way. Backwards one may say


thinking back… to days before winter struck and,

we laughed as we raced each other across pedestrian crossings

only to walk the road together to make memories


why do they echo back-wards with time?

via Daily Prompt: Echo

A Resonating Hour

Tick. Tock.
simple. harmonic.

motion. the long glinting legs shiver
dancing eerily to the beats of the orchestrating quartz
pulsating behind its sheet white face
ornate with ugly wrinkles, regularly spaced,

oddly, chime! of ca’phonic cries!
Legs. Out.
tortured. delicacy…
In half, a-hundred-and-eighty degrees.
Time of birth. 6 p.m.


————————then breathe again
——————-let the redness flow
————————across the skies
——————-and silent strokes

————————minuscule, utterly alive
————————flutter of wings

————-ventures, while reddish-brown dries

across the written page.

Past 6 post-meridian,

limp legs, muted vibrations, the clock

face torn askew,

So who alone knows when the clock does stop?

Daily Prompt – Connected 

Discover Challenge – Origin Story 

A stutter.

In the middle of conversation you spit out your chewing gum

Onto the street, like its instinct. doesn’t ebb the flow of words. I stutter

words of distaste, taken aback. It’s the first time I’ve seen

you do something like that. It feels like it’s outside your behaviour rules.

Your expression changes.


Much like the day back when I complimented you a little too much

When your team won at the regional rugby match.

That I didn’t know you played.



Don’t know.

me, who you are or you, who I am?

You flicker, furrow on your forehead, forget what faults


we have

Better early than late.


[Daily Post – Discovery Challenge: Memory; Daily Prompt: Street]


Turning over a new, old leaf.

He sighed with a strained breath, read

through the letter again; surely his sincerity

should reflect undoubtedly now?

But the rubbed out pencil

marks had worn the paper and

stole the neatness of his carefully placed words.

Unsatisfied, he replaced the day’s paper with a blank

new sheet, and copied out his old words.


But when turning over a new leaf, he was blind

to the stain left behind of his unfading character – he missed

that the wearied paper, greyed with apology and crying

damp with pain, carried more depth


Than his clean words will ever show.


[poetry | 101 | rehab| papers]


Life imitates art 📷

basket plait

Life imitates art? One would think it’s the other way around… But looking no deeper than a Wikipedia search and the phrase seems incredibly insightful:

“…although there has been fog in London for centuries, one notices the beauty and wonder of the fog because “poets and painters have taught the loveliness of such effects… They did not exist till Art had invented them.” – Wikipedia

And a few lines to accompany the faded out photo:

She laughs as the dapples of sunlight dance and hide
amongst the unruly grass,
while the wind ruffles
her hair, entwined like nature’s reeds.
And though time fades her rosy cheeks,
her glowing youth stays, ever intact.
And her skin crinkles with aged beauty, where wisdom has made its marks –

for the first time since it left, free, from fiction’s mouth.

-the walking pencil

[The Daily Post – Photo Challenge] “Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.” — Oscar Wilde

Previous poem + photo: Unusual gathering


Time to bring back the horrors of primary school*, embarrassingly lame acrostic poems! Except this time I’m not in primary school (at least in terms of my physical self).

*UK: school for ages 4-10/11


Ruffled pages; Ruffled feathers

Erupted curruption, Froth of angerbubbling venom.

and tiny voice, too afraid to speak: weak heart breathing tainted air.

half-attempts to cool them filling frills down, fan the toxic fumes but.

Ignorance still stays Arrogant.


Not to say that because the evil is persistent, the good stays silent because

Knowledge gone cold can risk you ruffling the pages the wrong way.