ice tickles

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       Moving on 
        with life—
       enhancing 
    m         o          s  
          o          d

                       / ice won’t 
                      break
                     as you skate
                               o n /

              Drawing
                on this 
               sensual,
            s l i p p e r y
   s           r           a         e
        u           f           c     

                        / enraptured
                               by those
                         i c e
                         t i c k l e s /

         Feet moving
          to the sound
               of a 
           s i l e n t
w       i          p         r
     h        s          e        

/ ice won’t 
        break
   as you skate
 o n /

                    An ageless 
    s  u  p  e r  n  o  v  a
                   in this 
                          perpetual
 
                w       i       n      t      e      r
              
                                s
                      
                                        k
              
                              y 

ink rain weather

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Walking barefoot
on fresh grass
rain keeps
smearing
this old
draft

                   / Faint
                    reflections 
                        o f 
                     o u r
                  d a m p
                 r  e  a  l  i  t  y  /

Dizzy letters
all get 
blurred
eerie story—
last line
slurred

              / D r i z z l i n g lines
                   in ink rain
                    weather /

Books all
tattered,
O, too frail!
this ink
watered down—
too pale

All these stories
drowning, bold;
fading lines
on torn page
drawn

                  / Faint
                    reflections 
                        o f 
                     o u r
                  d a m p
                 r  e  a  l  i  t  y /

(Were they
really any
good, though?
I wonder 
now—
too late)

           / D r i z z l i n g  lines
                   in ink rain
                    weather /

p o e t r y. s o l d i e r s.

Photo by Steve Johnson on Pexels.com
Dreading the fictions
and their inner imaginings
willingly embracing
the poetry 
in those eager
fingers

                  / Unforgiving Eyes /
 
               Will you remember those words
               W h e n  y o u  a r e  o l d -
               W h e n  s h e ’ s  g o n e ?

Poetry soldiers
missing in action—
silent whispers
that do not speak 
wonders, yet reveal
half truths

              / Unforgiving Lies /

             Will you remember their words
             W h e n  s h e’ s   o l d -
             W h e n  y o u ’ r e  g o n e ?

Dreading the fictions
and their inner imaginings
willingly embracing
the poetry 
in those eager
fingers

              / Unforgiving Minds /

Like the 
poetry soldiers
missing in action—
yearning for fictions
to evolve from
abstractions

Minds, eyes,
white lies,
soft words—
barely whispered—
under 
b  l  a  z  i  n  g
     e    n    e    m    y  
         s     k     i     e    s

the colour of your dreams

Photo by Scott Webb on Pexels.com
I often 
get lost
in your 
canvas 
p a l a c e

My hands 
all dirty 
with
old
p a i n t 
 
What’s the colour 
of your 
dreams?        
              I   d  a  r  e 
               a   s   k

  Yet you 
  never 
          utter
    a single 
w o r d

So I strive to
find my
answer
in ink
s k e t c h e s

*
I often 
get lost
in your 
canvas 
p a l a c e

My hands 
all dirty 
with
old
p a i n t 

What’s the colour 
of your 
dreams?        
              I   d  a  r  e 
               a   s   k

Those 
undecipherable
ink 
 
        s
      t
       r 
        o
         k
        e
     s

Paint 
pirouettes
that won't
tell any
t a l e s

*
My dreams 
are
sometimes 
coloured
y e l l o w 

— with 
a 
dash
of 
b l u e —

Your eyes closed,
while I get lost
in the true opacity
of those abstract
i m a g e s

So I let 
all shades sink in—
colouring your reverie
back to 
r e a l i t y

the raconteur

Photo by Rafael Guajardo on Pexels.com
Raining feathers
misty light
the sound 
of a waterfall
nursing me
into sleep

Vigilant feelings
bleeding into
free-wheeling
thoughts,
a window about 
to swing open—
one I didn’t want to
see through

The widowed tales
of nighttime 
dreams,
the ones I tried 
to tell by heart—
with the worldly
decorum 
of the 
raconteur

Raining feathers
misty light
the sound 
of a waterfall
nursing me
into sleep

spy

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She yearned to 
become a spy
yet she failed 
so miserably

She walked 
the long walk
and dressed
in hued tones

She hushed the
sharp tongues
and asked for
bad karma

For those
that would 
play her—
the good ones
obeyed her

Lila yearned to 
become a spy
yet she failed 
so miserably

She wore her 
dark shades,
unravelled
dark plots

/ with feline intention
and birdlike precision /

Yet her wings
she did not
want to
get
w
e
t

So she’d run
under cover
on rainy 
days

It was always
warmer
by that
fireplace

She yearned
to become a spy—
Yet she failed
so miserably

failed reader

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I wish I’d never 
let you read
any of the stories
in my draft
book
 
Since I always knew 
you’d just skim 
through 
those 
pages

( Lousy reader
that you were—
now, your time, pronto!
to get back 
to school )

This is
a book 
that will
never get
published

Too bad you 
trashed 
the draft 
upon first
reading
 
Too good
you’ll never
ever get
to read 
the end,

One so tenderly 
written in my
doctor’s 
handwriting -
undecipherable,

for
my 
Failed 
R e a d er
E x t r a o r d i n a i r e

bloodied verse

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Blue-blood poet
cold at heart
large, 
your ego, 
this swell night,
 
She’s a tourist
in wild dreams
of word orgies
blood verse 
streams,
 
Both, 
crossed lovers
madness feigned,
vintage statues
They remained

Wordplay 
artists,
starry 
nights,
warm-blood poet—

S t a y 
      t h e 
n i g h t

new seas she sails

Photo by Emiliano Arano on Pexels.com
New seas she sails
with wet, wet eyes
cold, purple lips
a wild, wild heart

A fighting mind
one fateful tune
one fresh start
a blinding light

New poems read
with tired eyes
a stunning feat
those rhyming lines

Warm, purple ink
a healing heart
she will, one day,
recover might

A writing sword
on stormy fields
she will in dreams
all battles fight

And conquer will
those seas she sails
those dry, dry lines
a fighting mind

She starts to sail
she longs to write -
new poems, wild,
they will take flight

New seas she sails
a bright new night
with drier eyes
h e r
s  o  l  o
w  r  i  t  e  s 

veiled days

Photo by Steve Johnson on Pexels.com
We used to dream
of brighter futures,
features concealed
by demure 
v e i l s

Souls almost blurred
by shy, dry tears
fears hinted in those
faces—dark and 
p a l e 

Oppressive times,
so stark and fearful,
Venetian masks
silencing those worry
t a l e s

We used to dream
of brighter futures,
features concealed
by demure 
v e i l s

What face we’d find
under such attires—
question harassing our
snotty brains, those
d a y s 

We used to dream
of brighter futures,
features concealed
by demure 
v e i l s

Oppressive times,
so stark and fearful,
there was only so much
hope to fight those
w a i l s

Momentum for change
Lost opportunity? —
We’d never wish  
for those sad days to
s t a y

We used to dream
of brighter futures,
features concealed
by demure 
v e i l s

What face we’d find
under such attires—
colourful masks
silencing our worried
faces—dark and 
p a l e