Silly wisps of her raven hair flutter
In the winds of the long-short corridor of summer;
They snivel with the whims of cosseted sots,
Sinking in the futile harmony of winking beasts.
Pretty whiskers, soft with the ague of age, and lean
From frazzled grey.
A halo of white cotton crowns her fine dome, revealing little.
She paints the inky images of Al Hirschfeld —
Among whited, slit, black smuts needed for art’s emphases.
The greens of the season, lush and dreamy,
......
it's not in the way the words come out—
too tangled, too small, never enough.
but in the quiet ways i hand you my heart,
like a song at midnight,
its lyrics too loud for me to say myself.
it’s in the reels i send,
stupid jokes, clever lines,
all curated from hours of scrolling,
just to see if they’ll make you laugh
......
A heart that has grown infinitely wide, over the years,
One for surprises, each day a multitude of tiny, small things,
In a life so ordinary, she was the one extraordinary,
Only mother could turn the mundane into fascination and love.
She had the kind of selfless and sacrificing love, which said-
"I would die for my child, any time, any place,"
She was the spark that ignited hope in my dark soul,
Heedless to say, she was the star of my black hole.
......
The making of cards, as a child,
by the mind so wild...,
And wishing her on the day she deserves,
well, aren't enough things for a mother's reserve.
( as a child)
The mother's face that we wanted to see,
when the predicament situation came,
"mother required", to set us free...,
......
The rain conjured a sweet pattern on my skin,
The thousands of liquid spheres reflecting the nature,
Each one sings of treasured memories,
Each one kisses my skin and reminds.
It breathes life into this soulless emptiness,
And traces sweet paths on my skin,
As the clouds gather, I feel my soul stir,
Air anticipates the quenching storm awaiting.
......
Silly wisps of her raven hair flutter
In the winds of the long-short corridor of summer;
They snivel with the whims of cosseted sots,
Sinking in the futile harmony of winking beasts.
Pretty whiskers, soft with the ague of age, and lean
From frazzled grey.
A halo of white cotton crowns her fine dome, revealing little.
She paints the inky images of Al Hirschfeld —
Among whited, slit, black smuts needed for art’s emphases.
The greens of the season, lush and dreamy,
......
The sky is weeping, a silent cry,
As I watch the world pass me by,
Sitting alone in the dead of the night,
I hold my pen and start to write,
Trying to express how I feel,
Hoping that time would make things heal,
In my emotions I am drowned,
......
Today, I braced myself to get through,
Waiting for two new cats to soothe—
Two lives to fill the empty space,
And calm the ache I can't erase.
As melodies played soft and clear,
I scrolled through my phone, drawing near.
In a glance, the world flew fast,
Like wind that blows and cannot last.
......
it's not in the way the words come out—
too tangled, too small, never enough.
but in the quiet ways i hand you my heart,
like a song at midnight,
its lyrics too loud for me to say myself.
it’s in the reels i send,
stupid jokes, clever lines,
all curated from hours of scrolling,
just to see if they’ll make you laugh
......
Every drop of water,
Every breath of air,
Every blade of grass—
Whispers the same truth:
We are but custodians of this planet,
Entrusted with its care
For generations yet to come.