needed a car yesterday, yesteryear
getting all the ducks in a row for my own car,
it's hard for a cowboy without a steed....
scabbing rides to work ain't fun
and ubering can get quite dear.... my dear
so who's gonna drive me home, tonight? .

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.

Éclair My Heart

Fill me up with custard’s glow,  
soft as secrets whispered low.  
Chocolate coat our midnight vows,  
each bite a bow that time allows.  

Glossy tease of vanilla sighs—  
declare your love in pastry cries.





.

tragic queen Elyssa, foundress
of Carthage. Her brother, Pygmalion
slew her husband, the chief priest
Acharbas and in the uproar fled
with Tyrian nobles, bearing gold 
on a fleet of Phoenician ships.

Then on Mauritanian coastline
she bought some land to build 
a new city-state, from the vantage
of Byrsa on which her citadel stands
'circumfenced' by strips of ox-hide
strung along the perimeter of the hill

The Berber chieftain rather stingily
offered as much land as an ox-hide
could cover and later on sought her 
hand in marriage as the city grew
in wealth and regional importance
but she threw herself into flames

of a priestly funeral pyre to Tanit,
in self-immolation for the dead
god of vegetation, Adonis-Eshmun;
Dido, as she was known, hence was
elevated to goddess and patroness
of that great Punic realm of Carthage

“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.






.

"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.

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.






.

"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.





.

as soon as it's spoken
as soon as it's heard
words   e v a  p  o  r   a   t   e
words depreciate
so we try to keep them frozen
and chisel them onto poems
with a hope, come melt-time
a fossilised facsimile resides

My experience with silver and gold,
Just a sliver, so cold.
Der Winter ist kalt,
Where the wealth of winter glows,
A glimmer of frost,

In a landscape of frozen dreams:

Treasures sparkle under the frost,
Promises turn to ice,
In the heart of cold wealth,
Leaving a touchless beauty,
An allure that chills to the core.

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

flaw bearing retinue
fore bearing revenue
insolent foreboding

load-bearing attitude
unyielding fortitude
latitudinal aspirations

Going on in unblemished grace
Onward with a freshness true
Its fullness eternally perfected
Newness spouting varied hues
Growing all the while giving chase

flaw-bearing retinue
fore-bearing revenue
insolent foreboding

load-bearing attitude
unyielding fortitude
latitudinal aspirations

Going on in unblemished grace
Onward with a freshness true
Its fullness eternally perfected
Newness spouting varied hues
Growing, all the while, giving chase

shadowy sheets cover,
dark shining lips purse;
pointy ears ***** skyward
as corn stalks pondered
chanting scarecrows curse
in a sea of belly-up bream

Quietly blooms, where shadows softly play,
Whispers of secrets in petals lay,
Emerald leaves rustle and sway,
Mystic scents drift in the breeze,
Dew-kissed dreams gently tease,
Moonlit moments cease,
Hearts find ease,
Pure peace,
Calm.

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

Belatedly, towing a rust-worn Saab, where
many dreams and adventures are wrenched
from a youngster's brooding petulance ...

Gravel crunches under a pair of balding tires
guttural screaming to a downbeat of debt
spewing silently from a tattered billfold.

What a present: timely to an empty fridge,
in the hallway, a growing pile of washing
impatiently reeking of malodorous intent.

Broken trust lingers,
keloids bloom on tender skin—
time’s sharp hand caresses.

Only mem’ries remain,
etched deep like ancient rivers—
heart learns forgiveness.

Light seeps through the cracks,
wounds become a part of me—
scars, my final strength.

imagine your surprise

as you irrevocably realise

everything can be bought

and everyone has a price

what exquisite shock ensues

when you take off $ signs

unveil powers of exchange

and begin to live accordingly

witnessed a Sarasota sunrise today
at 20:21 PM via live feed, on screen
to tidal songs that sounded like pounding
wavelets folding into the shore while
gulls milled about on a wooden jetty

clouds hovering in a lazy breeze that
didn't care either way for its entrance
peeking past the horizon between gaps
piercing through the distant haze
with an orangey sparkle in its wake

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!

Light
A single spark
arcs
in the hush of thought,
braiding
hope into the dark.

Residue
Grey ash settles
on pages never finished,
charred
margins tracing first desires.

Memory
From cinders
of yesterday’s fervour
rise soft echoes
of half-formed melodies.

Message
We shape our breath
into tethered words,
casting lantern-bright
into another’s night.

Light
That echo returns,
igniting fresh wonder—
the spark leaps on.







.

Three years, three months and three days
Perhaps it’s a random amount of time
But in three hours this flight will take off
Gotta take three minutes to freshen up
And look away for for three seconds
No worrying now about free pushbacks
Let’s put up memories with thumbtacks
All adds up in life’s measured advances

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.

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.  




.

leeward of a lean-to hill
iambic cadence thrill
amber flecked lemonade
morsels don pleated frill
bring on tend’rest brocade
while at windward dale
wizened cheeks go pale

it's quite sad, so sad

when afterthoughts don't count

lopsided in the mind



where fore thoughts do abound

it's like gazing intently

at those flat rainbow lollipops



what spins you round and round

emptying memories we've had

and new thoughts find

"Murmur of Whiskers”





In pre–dawn hush
you pad across linoleum—
soft paws tracing the map
              of my half–dreams.

                Your quiet breath
becomes a tethered prayer,
stitching ragged edges
of my nightly fears.

              No need for words:
your calm is the benediction
       that steadies my pulse
before the world awakes.






.

Bring on kintsugi
In the night’s cathedral hour
New life starts at dawn