I got used to everyday feeling good
I ran out of words in my book
Then the book started to burn
And new pages started to turn
Scrambling, I tried to reverse
But I couldn't stop the adverse
Days turned into night
No sun was in sight
My chest felt tight again
Just when my pain was at an end
Life takes a different trend
A mind that flows like a journal .
Ideas that stretch as long as river canals.
The ambience is burdened and sinks once in a while.
The focus , undisturbed like the Blue lotus of the Nile.
At that moment with everything on its climax,
The surreptitious heart doesn't allow the body to relax.
With simple words to be said ,the throat is choked,
The sensitivity of the heart was poked.
Stuck on the same predicament with no solutions,
This problem exfoliates with the burning passions.
All passing shadows are the regular audience.
The night weighs the duration with an alarming presence.
Sleep feels like a futile exercise with a heavy chest,
All it takes is one word after the other to finally rest.
Are you scared that your words would be what they detest?
Fool, I think telling them is for the best,
Even if your role in their life is of a guest's.
Written: August 16, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Line Gauthier
**************
Afraid of Love’s flame, yet drawn to its name,
I almost said “I love you”, my demur to blame.
Curling my tongue—worrying you'd leave,
Love agony is louder than hope, if you believe.
In silent rooms, holding hands, we glance,
Both aching for a sign, a spark, a chance.
Hanging 'round down Trenchtown
Bob and me we had a yearning
he only had to signify 'Rastafari'
soon Bob and me we were a'burning
jamming the live-long day
reggae music was a'fire
wasting the night away
as the moon looked on
playing on the waves
Bob and me we were free
he and me we were a'flying
while the world was turning
no woman no time for crying
no disturb Bob and me
it's only the midnight 'erb we're burning
Pastel pages turn and turn,
colour mix turning to burn.
Foster baby cries its first,
bursts of today taking its turn.
Every shade will have its season,
every fire will find its reason.
Blister pack locked it in,
soaking up packets of sin.
Last moments in the soup,
regaining a sense to recoup.
Hold the light against the glass,
let the colours drift and pass.
Nothing owed and nothing lost,
only the turning, only the cost.
Past the future round and round,
pure chaos in master the sound.
Beauty in the knowing.
Everything showing.
They are rufescent with fury.
Hissing stridently with horror,
They post words of wailing vigilance through
Parched gullets.
Glows run amok amid drunken spells of
Hysterical lustre
Fleeting shards of wobbling light
Pierce the earnestness of a grieving dawn,
Blinding the essence of insistent courage.
Early warm ruddy presence is
Dissolved by the warring flames of
Hostile tree-threads singed with hate from
Jungles that hoot, flee and crackle, fanning the
Embers of a fuming climate.
We often try to retrofit
The remnants of a bridge that burned
In fires that we never lit
With scaffolding of lessons learned
But if we are the only one
To put in work to reattach
We may find — when work is done —
The arsonist still holds that match
7/22/2026
Written for the Mend the Fence or Burn the Bridges Contest
yet the truth of all
brilliance is the charcoal dust
up around the bend
smoke rings rising
engulfed in the ceiling fan
no visible trace
Burning bridges makes you feel light and free.
Some situations are only dead weight.
It's great when you know longer have to see
one that might upset or infuriate.
Mending fences can help someone restore
a relationship that has some merit.
bringing back the good times you knew before.
Life is much better when you can share it.
One important thing that I've learned, my friend -
It is much easier to burn than mend.
Every mother's prayer calls home
in this hut
morning smoke billows upwards
holes in the door and roof gasp
a mother's tear-streaked face
over the burning coals
empty clay pot
who will provide enough food
today?
Ahead, the wet dust on the paths
it's hard to tell whether it was last night's rain
or a drop of blood
but the remnants of water on the road
and the remnants of light in the vision
seep into the womb
becoming pus and blood.
Children fall asleep listening to stories
now they rub their eyes
to ponder
that there is no more fairyland
no wind
to carry them away
and if they try to stand
their heads hit the black sky
their eyes burn
their hands burn
their stomachs burn
are they roasting themselves?
A voice rises up
is it from the sea?
from the valley?
from the mountains?
from the storm?
from the wailing of many voices?
it continued to soar into the sky,
but in the trees,
the branches
and leaves remained motionless.
Smoke swirled like any other day,
only the mother slowly lifted her face,
tears streaming for a moment,
and the children peeked out again
—and again.
Atambua—Indonesia, July 9, 2026
Ceraunophilia
Winter freezes the glass
Thunder splits the sky without warning
Lightning nails a dry tree
Bark burns loud and throws sparks
Moonlight cuts the snow lake
My window throws it back
The first time I saw you in the garden
Your glance struck like that
White sudden through bone
My heart caught fire
Red and blue like your eyes
Phoenix ash on my tongue
The whole world turned green
Daffodil-lit in the moon's tone,
a soft embrace,
a flocking companion in a dim evening.
Rear view of the stage show:
Shiva's Sati, burning in perfection,
wild at its peak, soft at its core;
a loss that shatters the hope in loneliness.
A curse beyond its cure,
no magic stick, no angel love;
brilliant light, blue shadow,
a lonely mansion within reflection.
A mechanical bloom bleeds to break,
shatters to grow up.
Timid expansions over its cold hold;
a firefly's guidance to heavenly intimacy.
What a gain—to become a memory-knowing well.
Departed in a moment,
shattered deeply;
manifested determination to exit.
Maybe it wasn't an illumination
that went blind.
A pure exchange of my tunes for your flames.
Miss you now,but you waned out forever.
I can't piece together my thoughts, that's why I right poems
There's too much stuff up there, too many problems
Righting things down makes things easier
It organizes my thoughts, makes them less linear
When my brain is on fire and I can't put it out
When it's filled with confusion and doubt
I just start writing and it all goes away
Because a few words can really make my day
People lined the block to watch
fire take the structure at night.
Firemen poured water onto flames
but only to contain.
I stood with my parents and watched.
My mind’s eye saw books burning
the ways of life disappearing—
no longer would a boy stare during arithmetic
and stare at the braids of the girl
who sat ahead of him each day.
No longer would the bell ring
to start the day No longer
would it ring for recess.
The next day burnt debris
would clutter a patch of asphalt
the playground behind the building.
We could only watch as the water
poured onto the fire turned to steam
and disappeared into dark skies.
nothing said could bring the building back to life
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