I am a true rebel- for I question
the words of my catholic rigid rules.
And will rise up to claim my self-expression,
keeping the parts that are like precious jewels.
Spiritual freedom is my obsession . . .
I do not want to be like the mindless ghouls.
Forces of desiring things creates aversion,
and pushing these things away creates diversion.
So, I let go of all useless craving
and let go of the resistance and fears.
Stop the beliefs like old etched engraving,
I hang from stars that seem a chandelier.
Don't obey all the catholic ravings,
but hold what I consider to be dear.
Through meditation my focus is unbroken,
and I can hear my spiritual voice spoken.
I turn away from any cult-like faith
throwing away all the rigid mindset.
Discard all the bible verses that saith,
to find my inner song- I press reset.
I will seek a journey to interfaith,
and hum to my internal clarinet.
I am placing all those old teachings on a shelf,
to begin an amazing journey to myself.
“Fleeting visage of beauty is a contemplation of uncertainty” – Quote by Poet
Your ebony hair curls and cascades untamed,
some swirl in the stream of craving squall,
some lace the lilting lattice of lust
on your forehead of ivory canvas,
engraving the contours of evanescent charisma.
I ponder if this is your last fleeting image
I glimpse flicker in the wind to fade in oblivion,
if there is no tomorrow.
Your almond eyes deep as the azure sea
waltz with the melodic waves of fervent music,
eyelids dance with the flutter of beguiled butterfly,
floating in the air of yearning on charming wings,
weaving the wondrous fabric of trance.
I ponder if this is your last dormant dream,
I deem drift away in the wind to wilderness,
if there is no tomorrow.
The buds of rose bloom on your luscious lips,
swathed in the lilac luster of sunburst dulcet dawn,
the attractive allure glints with gorgeous glow
like pearls of dew on pristine petals of pink rose,
shining like a star in the sequined sky.
I ponder if this is your last lyrical smile,
I scribe in my memory as the stardust sonata,
if there is no tomorrow.
Yours is written by love only a Mom can reveal
Thanks for engraving such in my heart
Always reminding me of your awesome presence…
Oh, I dearly miss you.
With gratitude, I wear your handwriting
Ceaselessly showing your trademark of care
Keeping me mindful now of my motherly roles…
Oh, I long for your counsel.
Nostalgic, never can I resist the bursting scenes
of your teaching pursuit-tenacity as you made me write the ABC
midst the gripping tenderness of your directive hand...
Oh, I can't forget your unique way of editing my essays...
Mother, thanks for letting me wear your handwriting
manifesting your elegant cursive style
while I carry on the legacy of your compassionate* expression
devoid of artificial intelligence-stain along authentic impartation of lovingkindness.
*Isaiah 49:15 Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I (God) not forget thee.
April 25, 2026
Honorable Mention, "Romanticize the Pulse" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Ink Empress; judged on 5/5/2026
Reheating seaweed soup
scooped and steeped from the Milky Way
rummaging sharply into the corners of torn memory
my unripe mother flickers like a candle watching the soup boil
There is no sieve to strain the light of her face that day
yet a cotton quilt smile that could soothe even icicles
a yearning for tomorrow holding starlight pooled within
the fluttering back of my twenty two year old mother
The remaining warmth in the seaweed soup she ate back then
seeping into my time grown heavy as it slowly reduces
tapping my worn and weathered pupils
engraving bitter salty tenacious footprints
Before the birthday dawn dries away
even if only in the haze of a dream
it would be good to see my mother as she was that young day
Xylography is the art of engraving on wood
Yes I love this skill wish that I could
Long ago we met such an artist at the beach
Onyx letters on carved wood car so unique
Gave him cash for the personalized gift
Really is the kind of art gives your heart a lift
A beautiful piece of woodwork now an heirloom
Placed it on countertop but it’s for son's room
He lets me keep it as he moves about in life
Yet I know one day he will come for it with wife
If poverty were human,
What would they be like?
Would he be stout and tall,
Unyielding in his ruthlessness?
Or a frail young woman,
Weary in her helplessness?
Would he stink of broken hopes,
And those of starved deaths?
Or would she smell of a long day,
And hard-earned pennies?
Would he have calloused fingers,
From years of crawling the dirt?
Or would she have frayed long lines,
Engraving her palm and destiny with silent endurance?
How would he look like when he smiled?
Sinister in his biased cruelty?
Or compassionate and patient,
In the face of unwarranted sufferings?
Lastly, how would the eyes be?
The windows to the soul, they say.
Would they be hard and grey,
With sadistic pleasure for the fallen?
Or would they be hopeful for what's to come,
And grateful for the little that they have?
It's the time since feeling sandy grit scratch between my toes
Transparently do I remember, although the years have flown
Chilling memories sitting here, Ice cold and nervously alone
Once a place was my escape, to flee a troubled home
I never liked the water, even now that I am grown
Only would I climb the rocks and carve my name in stone
The sharp edges of a tortoiseshell, engraving with its bone
Despite a life so undeserving, forgiveness I have shown
But I shall never forget their malice, nor their actions will I condone
Summer’s Sparkling Journey
Swinging, sideways we two, in a striped hammock.
Green, grand,leaves that grinned, engraving our love on
summer’s clock.
Hearts, your hands, holding our summer’s warm heaven.
Wishing, wanting, now, to be, excited and thirteen again.
Graceful,gravel beneath our soft feet at eve.
Mr. Moon's magical, romantic secret, mystery,
That desirous, tan glow on your face, ever melodically sweet.
Delicious, delightful, lips that ever so full, did softly meet.
Secretly, did, we, like Romeo and Juliet, did in barefoot feet,
Meet so soft.
Sparking stars, observed us, under moon glass, kiss under stars,
aloft!
7/15/2024
As Space knows no true
vacuum – (in a vast sense
always exhibiting abundance of
space) -- so near Nature,
fills with infinite mystery,
delights in difference
though rudiments may compare
no two blossoms exactly alike
a slight, odd, curl in a petal
shade or hue its own
specific blend
no twin with definitive
blessing and sin
unlike governments
always attempting to lump
pigeon-hole
engraving community hallmarks on its
peoples
though they have individual hearts
and individual souls --
“The effervescent beauty needs to be embraced,
for it may drift away with the wind” –Quote by poet
The onyx hair untamed
Some swirl in the squally stream
Some lace lilting lattice on ivory forehead
Locking the charisma of the evanescent mind
Lest it flies away from the face in the zephyr.
The almond eyes unclosed
Eyelids blink to the tune of butterfly flutter
Eyelashes align with silver strings of starry sky
Hold the dulcet facade of dream-drenched charm
Lest it floats away from the face in the zephyr.
The flower of luscious lips unfurled
Dons the lilac luster of the sunburst dawn
Dew drops shine on petals with sparkling allure
Engraving the curled contours of the mystique smile
Lest it flits away from the face in the zephyr.
The cherubic cheeks unveiled
Spread jasmine scent in the seductive air
Caressing the face suffused with glow of aurora
Paints the passionate portrait of gorgeous glamour
Lest beauty drifts away from the face in the zephyr.
What is mist in my demeanour,
makes me fray when I am touched,
the thread is just a little leaner,
when the rug is pulled too much.
Adjust the light,
reduce the glare,
the eyes will compensate the glow
with just the right influx of air,
the breath will gently ease its flow.
Call from the candle,
the patterned handle,
generates the heat of light,
and when it’s bare without a sandal
the iron brands you in the night.
Aware of the feast,
release the craving,
the best will save it in a jar,
wearers might warn us by waving,
when our engraving made its mark.
A stark reality to territory,
we covert the dark to rest,
the part that sparks our own clarity,
and every fight is but a test.
Caressed the stretched out wing and body,
the rack and ruin of a maiden flight,
the pressed at best now torn and shoddy,
unless the pest drifts to new heights.
Despite the knit of what was woven,
the proven cloth still dares to shred,
the holes return to join the stolen,
fitting to nourish on what was said.
o the vast lawns of white stones silent....as a sparrow
tends her new clutch
only in engraving they speak soldier's names....and
the wars they fell in
men and women of brave....as the bugle weeps in
taps too young in sleep
hearts in cadence stilled....wars are storming
bastards of fire roaring death
soldier's stories whispered in....aligned standing
rows of everlasting
The face in the crowd
Walking through time
The church on the hill
That day
Etched forever in silent loathing
No word, no reason, long, long, gone
Fifteen years
The face, older
In the crowd
She wanted to scream at him
Just say something
She began to follow him
Watching as he walked into the graveyard
Stopping beside the solitary grave
Touching the headstone
Finally disappearing
She approached the grave
Reading the inscription on it
The name stood out
She kept staring at it
Recoiling in disbelief
The name and date
Fifteen years ago
The wedding day
It didn’t make sense
She began to study the name
Touching the engraving just to make sure
Looking around, searching for him
Her head spinning
Nothing made sense
Finally falling to her knees
The face in the crowd
The face in the crowd
Walking through time.
“Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.” Rumi
Life can be an incomplete glossary,
speech a haunting ghost,
in search of a perspicuous poem -
to express unspoken thoughts.
I remember when she said,
"Cue me poetry"
So, I became her perpetual poet,
engraving sweet soulful words
upon her bitter spiritless lips.
Fate had turned her into the Queen of Darkness,
but my heart glows in the dark.
Together we illuminated like a trillion twinkling stars,
outshining the enigmatic effervescent moon.
Her essence infused a refreshing presence,
like morning sunshine after a night of rain.
Slowly she became a pilgrim of my poetry,
and I, a sojourner lost within her soul.
As I wandered through her secret chapters,
my word weaving revealed her book of scars,
each drop of ink resembling her tepid tears.
Each vexatious verse purified through
a catalyst of catharsis, healed her wounds.
We are like quill and scribe,
vowels complimenting consonants,
completing an impeccable vocabulary -
without her there is no muse.
Growing up I've always admired the story of Icarus & the sun
But as I matured I learned that I actually resented it and here is why...
I am the sun
scorching, burning Icarus.
My heat leaving imprints of his flaking feathers
Upon his skin, engraving his bones.
The wax slowly melted making his harness heavy,
Weighing down his harness; he has nothing to grasp onto
Just his
f
e
a
t
h
e
r
s
I am the ocean as
He sinks down to the ocean floor
Trapping his lungs with salt water
leaving no space for a scream, cry, or merely a whisper for help
And surely no chance to escape the grasp of the waves
Never will he feel the sun upon his skin again
As he is forgotten my waves will keep on
crashing and trapping anything that comes into contact
As he is forgotten I will burn within my dancing flames
till they go out destructing myself and everything around me
As I am forgotten...
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