Oh, how my eyebrows seem to bow,
To mark where life has got me now.
Each furrow etched across my brows
Defies what my well-swept hair allows.
My brow is bossy, yet will not kowtow,
It tells the world what's here and now.
Before I've spoken, it's clear somehow!
With the truth written on my brow.
It arches high when dreams take wing,
Then droops down low, when doubt sink in.
It charts each worry, joy, and vow—
In life's diary written on a brow.
Some call me highbrow, some say not.
Some a lobrow, all tied in a knot.
Such labels rise, and fall to new lows.
My brow wears none — it simply shows.
Alas, my brow will never ever lie;
It speaks before I can wonder why.
My eyebrows rise, my forehead pleads,
Confessing more than my face concedes.
So I don't beat my brow in vain,
Or wear it smooth, with needless strain.
It lifts with hope, it softens with care,
I trace the lines onto where I dare.
So my brow-beaten brow of mine
That traces all my worries, line by line
Your furrows are not my fault, somehow—
But the quirk of eyebrows on the plough.
Flower hidden under the sunny sky
Scent of garden under the moonlight spy
Droops and wilt when thirsty and dramatic
Scoops and tilt when garden is romantic
Shadows lengthen; increasingly
Is cast in doubt.
Hangs, with dying man's hope about
Whilst time runs out.
As the droops set in, with eve's chill
Eyes, reflecting
Eddies at sea's confusion, in
All headings spin.
Not of one, but the many
Not this hour, but all times
A head droops. And nor cutely.
As in sweet bloomed fashion.
For what of life, care-shouldered
As much for weighs one down
The world o'er is ever in
Despair's rainy season.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Streetlights glow with snowy halos,
quiet fills the space between carols.
Windows glow amber
each one a story half-told.
The tree leans slightly,
overburdened with memory.
Tinsel trembles in the draft
where the front door didn’t quite latch.
A child’s sock droops
from the mantel, wool stretched thin
with the weight of expectation.
Somewhere, a kettle sighs.
Darkness holds its breath.
For a moment in time,
the world is gentle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
empty now, the stocking droops beneath the mantel,
cinnamon lingering in its empty toes.
the heels are frayed, Christmas memories
and the wool unraveling like vintage Christmas cards.
it stands open recalling the remnants of sweetness~
oranges, candy canes, and chocolate coins.
how something so small holds so much absence.
Since you've left,
The soil still bears your footprints,
In the yard with the old oak tree outside.
Since you've left,
The tap still drips in the sink,
As if paused mid-turn.
Since you've left,
The cushions in the sofa lay haphazard,
Waiting to make space for you again.
Since you've left,
The vendor waits an extra minute,
While passing by the house.
Since you've left,
The old neighbour still looks over my shoulder,
When he sees me approach.
Since you've left,
Lullabies don't sit on the tongue,
With the same familiarity as they used to.
Since you've left,
Toddlers have stopped gazing at the world,
With the same wonder and awe.
Since you've left,
The lady down the road missed a loop,
While knitting the sweater for her youngest.
Since you've left,
The willow droops lower,
Despite the early spring.
Since you've left,
Hope has become helpless,
And anticipation reconciled with dread.
Since you've left,
The moon has ceased to rouse poetry,
While its blemishes have taken up the words and the ink.
The door swells in its frame each winter,
paint curling like old tongues —
still you press it open with a finger,
leaving soft dents in the wood.
Inside, the walls hum from hidden wires;
plaster sighs under your barefoot weight.
Every step — a loosened nail,
a whisper of dust sliding down beams.
The windows breathe in drafts,
their single panes shivering;
no storm need rage —
your shadow is enough to rattle them.
In the hallway, wallpaper blisters;
your sleeve grazes it,
and flakes of me snow to the floor.
The ceiling, swollen with damp,
droops lower each night you sleep here —
timbers ache above your breathing.
Downstairs, the kitchen faucet drips
like a clock without courage;
your laugh sends the pipes ringing,
and the cupboards cough up ghosts.
Upstairs, in the attic, silence nests —
you climb no ladder,
yet I feel your warmth seep into rafters
where rot waits, patient.
When you close the door behind you,
its frame leans inward, yearning.
The house is always colder after.
The dry stem of a lonesome vine of vivacity,
now painfully curled, rooted frozen,
entwining the desiccated verdant veins,
sways chilled in the winter wind of desolation.
The sleeping passion of exuberance,
painting a picture of comatose entity,
impresses none, finds no frame, droops down uncoiled.
Dormant emotions flicker like candle flame in freezing gale,
the crumpled vine suffers cold distress, pain unexpressed.
The original emerald lattice morphs mystically into
a mirror of veracity with ingrained sheen of actuality,
reflecting the real rendering of silhouetted latent essence,
rinsed with the suppressed hues
of distinctive spectral disposition it embodied once.
Metamorphosis creates the transient design,
an alien in its own transformed domain,
completes the contrasting paradigm
of the compulsive shape shift,
waiting for the touch of spring.
A squirrel got into the homestead,
it picked a lock with a dry thorn.
The smell of dank fur clung.
We carried small talk above our heads.
Nothing put away but still dangles.
Denim droops, snagging
the arms of rumpled shadows,
fusty jeans gander and loll.
Calico and cotton are rescued
the soggy separated
from the mildewed.
Soon front steps will be scoured,
tails and collars made to flap
while medium-sized back-yard critters
flounce and fluff.
If a blotting wind returns,
the squirrel will bail with a flick of its tail,
we will wash bathtubs,
fully clothed with yesterday's suds.
Teasing eyes that I can never get out
In my reveries, they haunt forever
Voluminous euphoric feelings sprout
And engross my musings without sever
Spend time gazing at the infinite highs
Your enthralling phiz pervades the blue screen
Decipher the transmitted from your eyes
Profound silence beat the heartstrings umpteen
Enchanting voice resonates in my heart
Droops me into a hallucination
Wish to soar leaving the whole realm apart
Quiet moments with exhilaration
Take the stand of Lord Byron to admire
You, as it's the lone thing that I aspire
Its raven skin follows without a 'woof,'
no bark no bite,
darker than a shadow in sunlight.
It reflects in the mirror,
staring with 'Edgar Allan Poe,' ebony eyes.
At dawn it's at the bedside,
wanting to wander into the morning mist.
At twilight it rests its head on my pillow,
stalking, into my sleep.
It sits on the passenger seat,
without a seatbelt, unfocused,
unconcerned, like it has no need to exist.
It plods slowly around the office,
slumping forward, back curved like a 'jack knife.'
Colleagues ignore its obsidian paws,
sore from scabs, resting on the desk.
Its head droops with my sullen, dull ache.
Its tongue looks rough, no saliva drips -
a bit like my cracked lips.
We both seem to breathe in dry air,
as it feeds on my molasses mind.
It has no interest in sticks nor treats,
nor cares to leave my side.
A sinister magnetic faithfulness.
Unmoved, as I vomit black bile.
I wonder how is he a man's best friend?
Suffused with sunburst horizon’s spectral galE,
Unfurling the placid petals, the fiery floral sheeN,
Never droops while leaning toward the sun hoT,
Floats on flamboyant flow of mesmeric mirtH,
Lighting up your lively face I see shimmeR
On the rush of golden glow of sunflower aurA.
Wandering in wasteland under the cloudy sky stilL,
Enthralled, the flash of your hidden sun I feeL
Reflected in my heart as the radiance of blisS.
You tremble in my arms,
my head droops..
as hearts falls into an abyss
oh, if only it was so for us
love always knows.
Wondering now,
what's in store for two lips
hope lives in a quick fire
our tortured touch.
The stars whisper in a moment
stealing a prayer from the heaven's
watching two in want,
awaiting magic..
in a kiss.
A Summer rain came,
heads ducked,
hoods, hats and umbrellas
transformed into helmets.
all walked hunched below raindrops,
all looked only at the ground.
One little girl, dark hair flowing,
looked up,
loving the rain on her face,
lips and eyes smiling,
she skipped and jumped,
in the puddles
just because she could.
Just because he could,
a man's brusque hand
dragged her away,
from her play.
A thin mouth scold's her,
the child's head droops,
a simple joy
dimming in her eyes.
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