Love, Poetry


A hanging thread

swayed between

the two absolutes

of beginning and ending;

While reeling back into the point of entry

in that speck of near collision

with no hesitation or demurral

the strand lurches back in converse

propelling towards the other end

that is the finishing position;

Yet as soon as it nears completion

it was as if

suction hit at the last moment –

lugging the feeble thread back towards its initial;

And it never got out of this pendulous rhythm

never did

and never will;

Until when both hearts turn

resolute and steadfast

unyielding towards the

pendulum of their heartstrings

only then

will this thread finally stay still.



Pen and Ink

His essentia radiating

exterior luminating

an intense exhilaration emitting

from every inch of his entity;

He wanted to illustrate the breadth

of this raging searing fervidity –

he needed to;

Yet no articulated words seemed able

to wholly enunciate this form of

unprecedented elation

 spiriting within his soul;

Maybe it is pen and ink that I need 

thus, fingertips wrapped around the grip

black ink flowing on paper like

blood in veins

running without siege

gushing without faltering;

and when his fingertips finally

broke free

it felt like

his heat of exuberance

were planted into

as the seeds of black ink;

That spirit of gaiety

probably never leaving

these paragraphs of black stringed ink

for as long as time can permit.

Love, Poetry


Fleeting seconds

short-lived moments

that one millisecond

span of your laughter and mine

while kissing

will be lost forever in history;

We will probably never

be able to recall that laughter

or find back that specific gush

no matter how much it felt like surreality;

Time is galloping

moments are ephemeral

and all things eventually

evanesce into simply nothing;

Yet you and I

are not transient

like all the other entireties are to be

that I promise;

So even if our

phenomenal jiffs

fades into naught

don’t worry

because you and I

will always continue building

bits and pieces of Eden

as long as we remain timeless

and never transitory.

Love, Poetry


His fingers

stroking against

the creases of parchment

folded blunt ends twitching

along with the drift of whispering winds;

Lacking in the resolute of unfolding

the sepia colored sheet

not sure if it were

the words he knew

or those that he didn’t

that gave him the chills to begin with;

Clasping the piece for

what felt like an eternity

and when he finally did unfurl it

her warm resonating tone

rang along with the strings of ink;

Swirls of anguish and longing battered him

but none more than relief

as he read the ending notes saying;

Love touched me

taught me 

embraced me

kissed my soul

love was you

love is you

from the very beginning;

As a drop spilled onto the musty letter

the shackles shatter

the murky clouds receded

along with the mist that shrouded;

For once

he was no longer bounded

to a letter

or to her.



Those who stayed

People come and go

Relationships blossom then burn;

How many

sorry must I hear

abrupt endings must I experience

before those who come abide

and blossom into treasures;

Maybe those who left

were never once

flowers laying in the garden of mine

but rustling leaves passing by;

Flowers may wither

but they never die

for they leave a dozen more

of them growing behind;

Like those who wish to stay

will always find a way

back to your place

even with the gusts so strong and

heat so overbearing;

they will always

choose to stay.



Dreams, Poetry


(for the late Princess Diana)

Her heart sheds of





of all colors

like those found brightly lit in rainbows

sunshine and daisies;

Though seething raving storms

shading black and drabs

were no stranger

to her rugged path of living;

Yet none

were too strong nor dire

to ever stop her

from shining the world with

her heart of pastel tints;

None could ever

stop her from giving the world

a little more rainbow

to live with.

Love, Poetry


If words could ever

accurately depict

the strains of colors

rambling through my head;

If phrases could ever

form on their own when

my lips and tongue don’t go in sync;

If sentences could ever

piece by themselves

as I try to describe

how blessed am I

to have met you

have you

and love you;

If only words can be strung

to fit the ineffable

the ethereal

the exquisite moments;

only then

can words ever

truly describe

the way I feel for you.