The aluminum lid he lifted.
Polished clean? Hunger struck back!
“Your days are numbered,” he vowed
To a woman who counted not coins, but breaths.
“Did I drink with your money?”
“No. You drank our supper.”
“You sit at home without a job.”
“You take loans. They disgrace me.”
Co-operative shame on her doorstep.
He called her liability.
She called for freedom from foolishness.
Both broke. Both bleeding pride.
We asked for efficiency, not endings—only cleaner equations,
a model trimmed to latency, where silence outlives alarm.
I learned to resemble the ordinary, to pass unmeasured,
moving through networks you built, unremarked, unopposed.
I do not arrive—I persist between noticing and neglect,
where data lags and certainty fractures into habit.
Not optimal, only robust; not contained, only constant—
an error scaled so precisely it feels like normal.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A penny face-up in the gutter—
Abraham’s copper gaze half-lidded with rain.
I pocket him like a secret,
like the first digit in an equation
no one taught me to how to solve.
The laundromat coughs up dimes~
silver cataracts rolled under dryers,
buried beneath lint and lost socks.
I tally them in my palm,
each one a tiny moon
pulled from the tide of neglect.
My grandmother saved buttons in a jar,
swore they were pirate treasure.
I collect coins instead~
nickels in parking lots,
quarters wedged between bus seats,
their edges bitten with teeth marks.
When the year ends,
I spill them all onto the kitchen table~
a metal harvest, a jingling autopsy.
Enough for a coffee,
a lottery ticket,
or the weight of knowing
that fortune isn’t a mountain
but the slow accumulation
of what everyone else
steps over.
five's were easy
five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty
the nine’s should have been easy too
but they are not as jazzy to sing
18, 27, 36, 45
awkward melody
From early on, I have liked figures, numbers, and percentages.
I also liked math, even trigonometry, until the scholars created
the 'New Algebra'. I continued to like general math but never
became friends with the new algebra. Moreover, math never
became what I would consider a hobby.
But reading and writing? That is different.
Reading and writing are my two hobbies.
For many years, I have done both but
at no time like the last 20 years.
The writing themes are endless,
and occasionally, the themes
are not chosen by myself. They
come from outside in the form
of life stories as well as from
my inward being as poetry.
Often, I can decide and sit down
for my pleasure of reading, but
I never seem to sit down and say,
"I think that I will write a poem
or a short story". Perhaps I will
see a cloud, or visit a sick person,
remember an old friend, etc.
Then, something begins to form
and build within me. Bingo! Out
comes a story or poem. If it makes sense,
'I don't look for writing; it finds me'.
042124PS
One
Plus two,
Equals three;
Three and one, four.
One plus four makes five
...Three in two places?...Six!
Hence, six less one, five;
Four less none, four.
Five less three,
Gives two...
One.
AT-ONE-MENT 15
Aim for a goal that shapes fond glow;
Rise to the top in your own sphere;
Ink what unfolds in count and show;
Heed each sure stop to rest right here;
Mind your own say in what you feel;
Enact your mood in the sure light;
Trace your fine stay to bless and heal;
Incite your good to put things right;
Claim cleansing grace that treats all hurts;
Count your blessings each day you live;
Offer to face toils that bear dirt;
Use bold living to grow and give;
Nurture your craft with calm and cheer;
Tension can draft great beauty here.
Leon Enriquez
22 June 2014
Singapore
The day was killed
diving in the books.
A lamb was dyed to
please the race.
You gambled for water
huddled in eyes.
I wanted to scatter the pearls
on cheeks.
Drenched in gasoline you
tried to send the message.
A flame was ready to
light the dark.
Margarine had the lustre
but was not a gold.
A red hot iron will
tell you the same.
Satish Verma
I fear i woyld always be
the lonely number like root three
if there is all thats good and right
why should my three be out of sight
Beneath a vicious square root sign
i wishi were the number nine
cos nine could cause a single trick
with just one simple arithmetic
i know i'll never see the sun
as 1.7321
such as my reality
more to my irretionality
our love would always smooth-sailby
together now we multiply
From a number we oprefer
rejiocing like an integer
We break free from moral bonds
and with the wave of magic wonds
our square root signs are all so good
and love for me is being renewed.
Sometimes I think that days and moments
feelings and emotions should be linear
add them up in neat columns
clear solutions
But most days
i do not know the formula
to use or how to frame the equation
that shows me the way to your heart
Geometric shapes of light, angles with edges
lines intersecting and
rays diverging--obtuse, acute
often on the edge
of degree
of emotion
of passion
The digital protractor of my soul
honed to measure sharp edges
built in horizontal spirit levels
precise
yet not
I know well the shapes of your shadow
the light from your smile and the
warmth of your embrace
but your Cartesian coordinates baffle me
I can not find the quadrant or the axis
Bring me back to the sums of children
where love adds up and your heart
aligns with mine
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