It wasn’t the two of us at the start.
Day turned to night,
and suddenly we couldn’t part.
From one of the many faces,
To one I could pick out from the crowd.
We weren’t sure of ourselves before,
But one thing’s for sure now.
We’re caught in the torrent —
We found ourselves headed to the deep end.

Is the day perfect  
if there are no birds to wake you  
but there is lemonade?  

or if you live on Lemonade Street  
but there are no birds on electric lines  
because the utilities are underground.  

no birds twittering in trees  
just the sweet sour taste  
of lemonade puckering your mouth  

the scent of bonnie braes in the air,  
standing still in a pitcher of ice water,  
tangy, acidy,  
still sweeter than most.  

My neighbor,  
who is always preening and  
chatting up the neighbors,  
makes hers with bubble gum bursts and *****,  
a lemon drop of punch drunk love.  

If I want birds and trees  
I just walk across the street  
to the older neighborhood with telephone poles—  
some line birds,  
but mostly garden gnomes and bird baths.  

My dog delights in yanking me there,  
scattering the conferences  
of cardinals and jays in mid song  
from worm feast  
to the trees.  

Here, old men and women  
in shorts and summer dresses,  
holding citron nectar  
in tall glasses with seeds, rind and pulp,  
delight in their perfect day  
filled with lemonade and birds.  

I don’t know anymore  
if they are thrilled with the trill  
or fed up with the cacophony  
of untuned bird calls,  
birds in all the trees where they belong,  
silent at night.  

Deep in the forest  
filled with leaves,  
I suppose their diamond-throated song  
is a mournful dirge  
for when a tree falls  
silently, deadly in the green.  

One day our small community saplings  
will bloom,  
and the days will be filled  
with the miracle of birdsong  
and drinking lemonade  
on Lemonade Street.

I wish a day could stretch beyond its twenty-four hours;
allowing dawn to linger while I savour breakfast in calm;
no frantic check of time as I pour my tea;
no rush to dash for transport or meetings.

Morning light would flood my window long enough;
for slow stretches and thoughtful planning;
I'd arrive at work with minutes to spare;
settle into tasks without scrambling notes.

Lunch would become an unhurried affair;
a proper break with laughter that lasts;
afternoon hours would hum with clear focus;
projects advancing at a steady, unrushed pace.

Evening could unfold like a second dawn;
time to practise hobbies or wander with friends;
family dinners would not be a race against the clock;
conversations deepening as hours drift by.

Social outings need not end at curfew's chime;
late-night talks stretching into starlit freedom;
then at last I'd choose my rest: eight, ten, twelve hours;
each second mine, reclaimed from life's tight measure.

The shutters
                      let
                       in
                        l
                       i
                      n
                     e
                    s
                    o
                      f
                        l
                         i
                          g
                           h
                            t
                            t
                             o
                              t
                              r
                              a
                              c
                             e
                            y
                           o
                          u
                           r
                           o
                            w
                              n
                               p
                                o
                                 e
                                  m

of birds

this morn

anchor my soul

this day, this life

these sounds of grace


thank you thank you

to feathers and wings

all those who sing

bring in this sun

this light, this

ray of

love

I’ll share this photograph of my parents with you.
It’s like an old wine overflowing time, still new.
They’re eighteen and twenty-four, in their best poor clothes,
Posing under an olive branch on a Roman road.
The picture is classically imbued; they, permeated
By natural light like actors in a neorealist film
Embraced in some final frame of desperate justice.
The photograph arrests the wind of the day, that moment,
Blowing blades of blurring grasses into living inertia,
Light pregnant even in the stones and shadows;
And there’s something more, something magical,
Beyond youth and beauty, a divinity being born,
Cupid bending the olive branch, the arrow flown.

MOTHER
A word thoughtfully
Spiritfully
Embroidered.

Many pushed forth
A few nurtured and brooded.

Mother—
An entity enjoyed by some
But tasted by so few.

Hurray
I sing of a woman
My world.

I celebrate my hope
Wrapped for me
From God.

Happy Mother's Day
To my Odogwu

In the quiet of the morning, you find yourself wandering back,
To a time when the world was simpler, and joy was easy to track.
You were just a child, with a heart full of wonder and glee,
In the serene woodland, where snowdrops and daffodils grew free.

The air was crisp, the sky a gentle blue,
As you picked the flowers, their petals kissed by dew.
Each bloom a token of love, pure and bright,
For your dear Mum, on that Mother's Day light.

Her smile, when you handed her the bouquet,
Was a memory that has never faded away.
She held the flowers close, her eyes shining with pride,
In that moment, all the world's troubles seemed to hide.

Now, you look back with a sigh,
Your Mum, so much older, often lets loneliness pass by.
Her days are filled with memories, some heavy with sorrow
But you hold onto the joy, the love, and hope for tomorrow

The woodland still whispers, with the echoes of the past,
Of a young boy's laughter, and a love built to last.
Though time has changed us all, and life's burdens have grown,
The purity of those moments, in your heart, is still known.

So, you sit by her side, and you cradle her hand
And talk of the snowdrops and daffodils, and a love that withstands.
For in those simple flowers, and the joy they would bring,
Lies a timeless bond, an eternal spring