What do you enjoy doing most in your leisure time? In my leisure time I do nothing (as one must)and yet somehow find dregs of syllables when done and surrounded by my rhymes
Tag: Poet
Lines written at sunset on the 5th of July
Today, at the red sunsetas the blue mountains mournedI, too, wept my losses The tears came to me quite suddenand ran even though I wiped themFlowing thicker and heavier each time as a final release from prison Alarming, even though they were quiet but not one without reason I tried to hold myself steady- I… Continue reading Lines written at sunset on the 5th of July
The Mountains We Carry
They say that when God calls you to where he dwells, there is no force- physical or emotional, that can keep you from answering that call. They call it, Bulawa. You've been informed that the oxygen levels will drop with the altitude. You watch the people in line get rejected one by one, on account… Continue reading The Mountains We Carry
Let me as Wilde’s nightingale be…
I sing to you, my fatherEvery praise, every tear, every verseLet me as Wilde's nightingale be...In kind, innocent, honesty sing,and with the pain it bringsbe more like you.Leavethe purest red rose, as the generous thorn of sufferingbleeds me so completeI'm all soulFinally Home, at your feet ©
Final Act
'Tis time for me to retreattake to the wings, so to speakNo front row, but the back seatTake a bow. Exeunt. Leave. The actors will continue to playeach their destined parts onstageThere's romance here, drama therea suspense, foreboding in the airBut no more a place for meThe stage is set, and all lights beamTime to… Continue reading Final Act
Fistful of Words
Slipping like sand through my fingers, are a fistful of words
The Writer
One word. No sound. "More".
Fear- spoken word
a floor of eggshells, a cloud in the air
Nārāyaṇī
'Sita in Ashoka Grove' It was called Ashok-the grove of no sorrows...where, she, held by forcedwindled 'tween gloomand the faithful hopeof rescue by her LordSay, O, Tree, she spokein a dusked, despairing hourTo thy name be truelend me a branching handthat my hair may as rope free me in soul, if not in formAs winds,… Continue reading Nārāyaṇī
Poets: But there was a time…
A stranger born in the debris of this turn I step out o' Autumn, to a blank, June sun
Ishaisms 
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