Time found us and brought us together.
Through the window, I saw you cross to the other side.
Like a flight of doves, I was captivated.
It was a twilight filled with emotions.
I knew I had found someone more than a friend.
Though you had left before I came out,
I was convinced I would see you again.
The heart's conviction is like a sun-kissed sky,
A forever field of radiant petals.
I saw you again three days later at noon.
If time changes, will scars stain the sky?
If time pulls us apart, will we still find a path
to each other’s embrace?
The boughs of love sometimes become feeble,
Their leaves lose their hold and kiss the earth,
Surrendering to the soles of our feet.
These boughs sometimes sway to the songs of the gloomy wind.
I will hold onto the colourful and radiant days.
I will bask in the blooming garden of the heart.
I will hope for brighter tomorrows.
If time changes,
I will return to the cradle of our love.
I will sing songs of hope and renewal.
September 8, 2026.
I looked at you in tender love -
A tender shoot rising up from the ground,
Your new leaves radiant in the morning sun,
Freshly washed by the raindrops around.
A Banyan doesn't grow in a day, they say -
Challenging Mother Earth to give it her all
To raise this colossus of the forest green
That, for aeons to come, shall be standing tall.
A veritable king holding forests together
With majestic roots - above and below the ground,
The mighty trunk - nurturing and shelterimg
Every life-form all around.
I look at you again in over-awed silence -
Envisioning the great future that has begun!
The tremendous potential of that tender shoot
Its new leaves radiant in the morning sun.
The newborn cries, the old man sighs,
The same faint light is in their eyes.
The journey ends where it began,
The tiny babe, the fading man.
The baby starts in nappies, new,
A fragile life with much to do.
The elder closes out the years,
In nappies as the ending nears.
The toddler takes a shaky stride,
With parents watching right beside.
The elder struggles just to stand,
And reaches for a helping hand.
The infant babbles, learning speech,
To grasp the words just out of reach.
The senior tries to mouth a word,
But leaves the sentence lost, unheard.
The helpless baby needs our grace,
To lift them in a warm embrace.
The helpless elder needs that care,
When heavy years are hard to bear.
The cradle meets the rocking chair.
remembrance gentle like babe’s foot
smooth creamy warm
cradle handed down as heritage
here we sit waiting for christening
oblivious to what she will bear
what joys and anguish
hall clock ticktock
he is late with his mantras
to be whispered in her ear
soft purr of cat circles room —
nobody requires to speak
we roll new name on our tongues
over and over like counting
pearls on a necklace or
sweat drops down throat
even westwind is quiet today
a starling lands on sill
does not twitter, waits silent
she passes from one arm to next
wordless chaste enchanting
white crochet shawl alive
with granny’s hands —
teapot smiles rooibos tea
iced biscuits and cherries bedeck
oval oak sturdy, assured, steady
we hear his car in driveway
murmur a prayer of thanksgiving
still we whisper, still starling
has not flown or tweeted
teeny gold identity bangle glisten
white daisies shiver in bowl
petals endorse sound of name
beauty birthed has no time
__________________________
[Poet’s Note : Inspired by : Benicia Poet Laureate Emerita, Johanna Ely’s Poem : What Still Matters | Confirm : No AI ]
___________________________
I lived in the garbage of the slums of a fertile land.
I crossed the Mediterranean to wedge my dreams into bleak, unsanitary concrete blocks.
I am trapped in a thermal sieve filled with rats and cockroaches.
I miss the dust of the ruined roads of my homeland.
In the land of human rights, police brutality has disfigured my dignity.
Life in this chaotic dimension is a horror movie.
I think of the Grim Reaper every day, like a terrified inmate on death row.
I numb myself with cannabis to clear the darkness in my deranged mind.
Sleepless nights piled up over the years in the furnaces of decay.
A solitary existence, without ties, without love, without a story.
Dirty hands and a cold heart, fueled by adrenaline against the atrocities of misery.
I am a free spirit, detached from the tyranny of conformity.
If I don’t love you, I will tell you to your face, looking you straight in the eyes.
I am guilty of embracing the innocence of my transgressions.
Telling the truth in all circumstances is a blessing that sometimes gives birth to curses.
Don’t let the Cradle
Crowd
The Cross
Out of Christmas.
Oh mother, you are not divine anymore,
When part of you lies silent beside—
Undone by the hands that fed,
The little lips eager to call you mom.
What happens when the night crawls
Beneath the shady town of death?
Was there a sob, or desperate hiss,
When your dirty hands barred her breath?
Was he stirred, or gave a gentle kiss,
When death devised its plan through you?
The hand he held with mountain trust
Held his mouth and nose to rest.
Alas! You killed two little ones,
And why not spare the baby in the cradle?
Maybe you did it with your eyes shut—
And your ears and mind as well.
I’m sure, if a tiny light peeked through
The barred doors of your void heart,
You’d cuddle the little heart with love
And feed her from your divine teat.
But what you got by plucking the little flowers
Waiting to bloom for the world in full?
I’m tired of thinking of you as a mother—
Mothers are divine, but not you at all.
Bumble, the baby bee had the best cradle of all
It was carved out of a walnut by his Grandpa Paul
It rocked in the wind, gave a gentle little sway
Bumble slept inside it cozily, snoring away
Forged in the cradle of crumbling stone,
The river murmured like an elder's song,
A silver thread through earth’s old bones,
Unraveling what never should belong.
Like lightning shaped in liquid skin,
It laced through logs and shattered pride,
No war was waged against the din,
Just gentle strength that slipped beside.
Over time, I’ve clung to rigid dreams,
Iron branches in a storm’s domain;
But rivers teach what silence means,
That bending doesn't mean you're slain.
Wounds I wore like rusted chains
Became smooth pebbles in its tide;
The river wore them down with rain
Until they shimmered, purified.
Even stars reflected in its face
Seemed less fixed than I had thought;
The current showed a softer grace,
To lose control is not to rot.
Roots now sprout where rage once grew,
Fed by waters I once feared.
And in that flow, I saw what’s true—
Resilience is what I've steered.
veiled innocence
gazing charm
rich rewarding
motherhood
watching aware
unaware
surprising calm
gladdened too
receipt of pain
gift from Lord
'The cradle' -
rocks any mother
Have you seen, with no word,
The immense, cold voids
,among the slender, patient buds,
Received hollow seeds?
Have you beheld the earth
Lay the masks of dreams upon itself,
And like a sullen cradle,
Crush them within its embrace?
Have you seen the old children,
Pitching their tents upon the graves of young mothers,
On that day when mist
Wept upon the bloodied bridal bed of light,
And thunder,
,In a gown of false sequins,
Wed the sky?
I returned to the my embryo,
And my hands,
clenched the throat of motion,
Hardly tight—
Hardly horrified.
Will you ever know
What day it is today?
What hour,
Or the count of endless kisses between two eyelids?
Will time ever wend its way—
That crimson fluid flow
Coursing sluggishly through your drowsy veins?
And my child,
With hurried crimson lips,
Sleeps, suckling the secret of existence,
Hardly deep—
Hardly silent.
That day,
In a dead-end alley,
A closed window wept.
A window whose claws,
Gripped the erected iron bars,
And was crying out:
“The history of our paper-heart has been written in straw.”
Far afar,
in the lush meadow,
a tiny Daffodil once dwelt.
Two steadfast arms enfolded it-
their wings unfurled,
a cradle of shade and whispers.
But,
But all hopes are gone.
The Sighing Winds carry silence now,
and the Daffodil leans forever,
a memory etched in the Earth.
It is all now a dream,
To dwell with them,
But, but He will be glad,
in a pure, new world!
At birth, you opened your door wide,
My homeland – my golden cradle, my pride.
You give my spirit wings to soar,
How can I sing your praises more?
Your soft embrace, like a fluffy bed,
May my nation grow, may it be widespread!
In your embrace, I feel so free,
Living a life of blissful glee.
Every day spent within your grace,
My happiness, my treasure, my place!
As long as you thrive, my dear land,
My honor stands tall, like a mighty hand!
Nobody wants to see me down like I wants to see me up.
—The Unsinkable Molly Brown (Debbie Reynolds as Molly)
Her cradle rocked upon the sea.
Unbreakable was Molly Brown.
Icebergs, she dreamt; the meaning, key.
Her cradle rocked upon the sea.
The lullaby amidst debris.
The infant sleeps, as cries fall down.
Her cradle rocked upon the sea.
Unbreakable was Molly Brown.
The search
Names all experience:
Discomfort searching for comfort
Poverty searching for more
Death searching for life
Unsweetened searching for sweetening
The not-yet searching for already
And on and on..
Then there is that star and
The cradle...
Sub Categories
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