a forgotten past

in the regency era-
they with alabaster skin
ask for bread.
such graphic images,
with plastic smiles-
we observe the chaos.

a force, not a disaster,
follows people, even into the mines,
within the minds.

"falling from that altitude will result in incognimity,
but for now let us serve you better"

in between feeling

 a clumsy attempt to fly
dreams land on the sharp edge of axe
shattering sky can't make her vanish
clouds settle to listen to her pleas
no amount of name calling can bring her down
in her suspended state
no one can rub into her thoughts
sky melts into her
droplets fall on the ochre ground
how she desires a snowed feeling
as she cuts the clouds with a knife

"atmosphere seeps into her skin-
making her oblivion a mockery"

circled aura

clipping my wings
you have nailed me to the wall
those serving spoons have more life

crucified, you might think
I will be worshipped for my eyes
I wish to break free like a blackbird

broken yet with an aura
I savour the moment of standing tall
see that glow on my facade

moonless night has no light...
you cannot see me play dead
a pretension of sorts

I promise I will arise from that ghastly wall
that aura will follow me around

dappered & tappered

The King of Cats, 1935, Balthus 

swayed by his determined cat
he turns this way and that
his gaudy clothes swear deeply at him

papers tumble briefly on the floor
by a single flick of his wrists
limbo sets in the moonlit room
now he stands still as fragile as porcelain

his cat may chant nonsense
by looking askance
the yellow pants start to dance

"dapper was never an issue
go, get me a tissue"

desperate measures

Lee Plaza Hotel, Detroit, photo by Bonnie Beechler

in that room, before the war
there was laughter
which turned my legs to jelly
a paradise that we all miss

row and then another row
of broken rooms
no one to catch the debris
who will celebrate the trip to hell

who will bake a platter of tiny cakes
now my mouth has gone cotton
I have catch in my voice
I will gargle with warm water boiled with basil leaves

all is definitely not lost
war or strife, as long as there is a single human
there will always be life

"I am settling down in front of that television
so what if I lost my vision?"

lion of things

I guess you are not my type
I do not like easy preys
how did I escape from that cage-
now I am at the mercy of the moon
my mane is matted
right now I am not hungry
but when my body needs fuel
it will trigger me to search for something to assault
my list is not long
I will rest a while
It will be six am soon
I do not wish to go on a rampage
not when I have you to guard

I can still hear the music 
and I will make a play for it
if you allow me to touch your organ.

the blue sky and the earth are my witness
while the moon looks on 
or is that the sun?

"guess, I had a mixed double"

in the dreamland, words are wasted

Poet's Sleep, 1989, by Chang Houg Ahn 

bring me scrambled eggs
and a big mug of hot chocolate
I am so high on sleep now
there won't be a single peep
until you return
you don't need a stick to prod me with
I am in full form
trust me, words will come
I will fill the pages
it is neither a trial nor a test
let the sleep run its course
before it gets blown out by your arrival

reflected in the window
that table lamp gazes over me
while I absorb the book beneath my head

universal truth

Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien 

you need to be brave enough
to rent an apartment with steep staircases
but with your low wages
you can only support yourself like this

you can have a time frame
to go for something better without fail
before the mind plays tricks
of you being safe in such a place

later ought to come early
you must not let the virus party on you
you can always buy a bicycle
and cycle away to the court

"bricks will not fall apart
if we hold those with strong mortar of our will"

poured out my skin

Photo credits: Magpie Tales

I grasp the invisible barrier
pluck at the stream
gather the flow of routine

I am not the gutsy type
(my body has marks of burden)

"that list mentions a ring
but where is the ringmaster?"

~~~~~~~~~




This short poem poured out of me. Just like that. It may seem meaningless but it made sense to me....

tiptoed synergy

synergy of my toe 
along with the keys of the piano
you sense a balance in the bucolic settings
yet you miss that alternate edge
one that has the potential to open me up
the tiptoed alter ego
that former self
those hanging threads others could see
but not you
never you
the bellowing curtains soothe the windows

in a while the crimsons dots will fall on the piano
only then you will know of my stiffness

I chose it this way
to play the keys while I go
holding on to music till the last breath

"soon stark death will stare you on the face"