Streetlamps flicker,  
echoing their silence.  
The chill—  
not just in the air,  
but between glances  
that once burned.  
Footsteps dissolve  
into memory's fog,  
while love  
learns its first  
bruise.






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In the politics of dancing,
Where hearts move to the beat,
The mind hesitates, second-guessing,
While the heart is quick on its feet.

fictionalising that pain
only in writer’s quill remain
inkwell daily welling over
one that never need run dry
on pristine sheets shall ever cry
there a field blanketed in clover
under pregnant sky contain
descends yon seasonal rain

from this moment onward,
you will be my eyes, abroad:
so be on time and even earlier

Of the many things
that have been a regret
"putting down the pen"
has been most rude.

A number's just a simple sign,
Yet deeper meanings intertwine.
Like scars that tell a tale,
Each figure's more than pale—
A life lived in each line, so divine!

when the quiet breaks


i learned to love the silence
not because it felt like peace—
but because it never lied to me.

the noise left bruises,
every laugh a little jagged
every “i’m fine” cracked at the edges
and every promise wore someone else's face.

but silence? she didn’t pretend.
she just sat beside me while my hands trembled,
while my breath forgot how to stay.

people say healing is loud
but mine looked like folded laundry
and rooms i didn’t run from.





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Lift your gaze, feel the fire in your soul,
Travel back to where your spirit thrived,
Relish the echoes that make you feel whole,
In every word, a pulse of life derived.

For in the silence of unwritten lines,
We find the truth that eternally shines.

The mailbox is usually empty
What with the P.O. Box and
social media, emails, SMS
all so many differing ways
to keep ourselves in touch.
But this day’s walk down the
drive had changed the day!
A notice arrived, in paper
from hospital’s renal unit.
This path may lead clear
or perhaps to dialysis or
even a kidney transplant.
So look out, Tomorrow
quite surely here we come.

"Paws in the Light"

A sunbeam waits.
Two cats settle—
quiet, apart, together.

No words. Just warmth.

In stillness, memory stirs.
You’re allowed to stop.
This moment matters.

Madame Ranevskaya’s Reverie  
poem 2 of a Chekhovian suite

I dance beneath boughs heavy with spring,  
wine-warm laughter on my tongue.  
The air tastes of childhood and lost letters—  
murmurs of father, of home.  

Yet every footstep echoes farewell;  
hope, a threadbare gown I once wore.  
I sip nostalgia like champagne—  
sweet, effervescent, and gone too fast.  




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“Epistle at Noon”


Steam curls from the chipped mug—
a psalm rising in arabesques
against the sunlit kitchen tile.

My spoon taps a rhythm
like distant temple bells,
calling memory from its slumber.

Between the coffee’s warmth
and the hush of half–read pages,
I find an unexpected covenant:
mercy in ordinary motion.






.

"The Empire‐Skeptic and History Class"

Your Aeneas builds an empire
on exile and sorrow—what of the cities
he conquers, the peoples displaced?

Transformation has a cost.
By glorifying his ‘spark,’
we risk overlooking the suffering
ignited in his wake.

Oh, to remember such
unspoiled kinship with the divine,
where even the wind was a companion
and silence spoke in full sentences.

Perhaps this poem isn’t just
a backward glance but a gentle invitation—
to return, not in time, but in spirit,
to that meadow of soulfulness
where love was once our native tongue.

Some part of us still listens
to the rustling leaves, hoping
the gods haven’t stopped calling.

Should I die—think only of dew at dawn,  
Whispering on grass that shivers bright,  
Ghostly lines where my breath has gone,  
Vanishing in the arms of light.

Let each drop hold my final sigh,  
Tender residue of night’s embrace,  
Till warmth reclaims them in the sky,  
Leaving only memory’s trace.





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"first bruise"

Streetlamps flicker,  
echoing their silence.  
The chill—  
not just in the air,  
but between glances  

that once burned.  

Footsteps dissolve  
into memory's fog,  
while love  
learns its first  
bruise.

globe
not a stage a planet

bruised planks orbiting a sun made of soliloquy

audience as constellation—
each cough, a satellite of meaning

Rome burned here twice daily, except Sundays

and Hamlet rose and fell like a tide without moon

this was the world entire— conflagration fuelled
                                        by candlelight and gesture

"Croissant of Confusion"

Your layers spiral inward,  
a buttery maze without a map—  
I bite the edge, get lost in curves,  
crumbs falling like questions.  

Is it pastry or pastry’s dream?  
I’m too entranced to care which.

a harrowed reference = photojournalist’s bucket
brimming with raw film conveying targeted wishes—
blank frames sparking imaginings

"Rusted Harp"


Strings crust over
like ancient ossuary bones,
once vibrant with touch,
now mute in neglect.

Each pluck would be agony—
a resurrection of rust,
a hymn to how
we let beauty corrode.




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"The Meagre String"

In a dusty corner
the final string trembles—
a solitary note aching
                   to become a verse.

It breathes its solitude
                  
                  into splintered wood,
praying its fragment of promise
                   still sounds sacred,
even missing the choir’s embrace.





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“Veins of Mist”
by arqios

The hills exhale in threads— pale veins of mist
                            tracing the pulse of morning.
Beneath the hush, stones remember the weight
                    of footsteps that never returned.
A crow calls once, and silence folds a cloak around it.
The sky does not answer. It only listens
             with the patience of old gods.

The moon
lifts its bright cloak
high in the sky,

unraveling time’s knots
without a sound, and
the wind pours whispers
into yearning,

weaving
its swift wakefulness
through the night.





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Español

La luna
alza su manto
claro en el cielo,

deshilacha los nudos
del tiempo sin ruido,
y el viento derrama
susurros al hastío,

bordando
en la noche
su ágil desvelo.





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"for whom the bells toll"

Imagine standing at the edge of day,
                roused not by birdsong
but by a single, unclaimed toll.

As you read, pay attention
       to how that sound
becomes more than noise—
how it might carry stories
    you’ve left unspoken.

Notice the careful beat of each line
and the quiet spaces it leaves behind.
Rather than telling you what to feel,

the poem lets its unnamed bells
                          become your guide
through dawn’s uncharted moments.





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