Stars lit up the velvet sky
The salty sea breeze blowing
through the window of the old car
Dash lights illuminating the dials on the AM Radio
While Elvis and his blue suede shoes kept me company
My dad hollering out “one more throw”
As his cast net made the perfect circle
Fish jumping
Silver scales shining in the moon beams
He’d wade back out into the dark,
Knee-deep where the tide chewed at the bank,
Shoulders twisting in a rhythm
Older than the radio,
Older than the rust creeping along the fenders.
I leaned my head against the vinyl seat,
Warm air threading through my hair,
Watching the lead line sink beneath the foam
And reappear like a pocket of captured stars.
He never did throw just once more.
There was always another shadow in the water,
Another minute stolen from the night,
While the dial hummed low
And home felt a thousand miles away,
Right where it belonged.
under the crescent moon
in Halloween’s meager madness
a newly-put-together mummy
is closing the canopic jars
exiting her Egyptian crypt
to the horror of the unsuspecting
which means the entire town of Des Moines
A crack of thunder lights up the sky
a child’s scream is heard from the east
the ancient Egyptian mummy adjusts her organs
then turns to the night sky to see a flash of lightning
two witches riding toward Omaha are approaching
they whisk over her head, leaving her back bandages up
she is wondering now what strange night this might be
Halloween is not a celebratory day in ancient Egypt
A howling werewolf gives the night ambiance a jolt
The mummy stops dead, no pun intended
there are lit jack-o-lanterns at her feet
She is startled by them, they must mean something
a trio of scarecrows nod in the wind as she makes her way
toward town, wondering what strange magic this must be.
A mummy resurrected after four thousand years
Can you imagine?
A woman from old London Town
Walked the streets in a beautiful crown
Not a stitch on to wear
Though she'd couffured her hair
But where on earth was her gown?
There was a young woman from Putney
Who enjoyed making raspberry chutney
The problem she found
As she fell to the ground
Was she was eating nothing but brie
November 11, 1511
Bell Tower Student Villa
Florence
Most Honorable Leonardo ~
I am traversing Venice with Ricardo
We’ve roamed the delightful dame of Florence
where we’ve ogled all kinds of performance
Rhapsodic to report that I have audience with Michelangelo, Sculptor
certainly he is a revolutionary artist, a disrupter
I’m seeking to be his assistant to do household chores and learn
wanting to imbibe his artistic wisdom, not to earn
Florence is growing rapidly with many rogues
though it still feels evocative like a maiden rose
I’m immersed in visiting life-size statues, complete and incomplete —
walking miles of cobblestone streets, making
me deplete
My senses raw as unworked marble, ready to be carved without any garble…
Write to me, please, with family news, about your health —
I trust you are in strength and wealth
With the Grace of God, nothing else
Your friend, Giovanni, wearing an Italian belt !
Do not stand beside my grave and weep.
My dear children, hear me now:
I lived ninety-two full years,
yet you kept your distance, as if I were not here.
Still, I remained; I never left your side.
I gave you what I could
and carried you through your hardest days.
I sheltered you from a merciless world—
the same world I must now leave behind.
Through loneliness, heartbreak, and every burden,
while wet snow filled my worn brown boots,
I counted each of you—all seven—
with faces lowered over bowls of soup.
I was there, watching without a word.
Do not stand beside my grave and weep.
For thirty long years, my children turned away.
No evening of hymns or whispered prayers
could bridge the silence between us.
Now my long journey has reached its end.
Do not stand beside my grave and cry.
Seek shelter when the storm arrives.
Let the clouds release their grief for me
as rivers and ravens offer their solemn tribute.
Do horses tremble at rain and thunder?
Do not stand beside my grave and weep.
The fog enfolds my resting place like a soft white veil.
mallow plant
hales a treat that dates back to the pyramids
I will give you two hints
Rice Krispie treats and hot chocolate
marshmallows
a royal delicacy
enjoyed by pharaohs, nobility and the Gods
not for regular peons
also used to treat coughs
ease inflammation and soothe sore throats
who knew?
not me
until now
At last, those early autumn days arrive.
A flannel shirt feels comfy in the breeze,
which dances spritely through the still-green trees.
THIS autumn-lover’s muse will come alive!
By late October, jackets have replaced
those flannel shirts. A colorful array
of leaves and marigolds are on display.
With mums and pumpkins, porches have been graced.
Late autumn ushers in Thanksgiving fare
and sets the stage for coming Christmas cheer.
Deep cold takes over; frost and snow appear,
creating beauty, though the trees are bare.
The scale and might
is hypnotic - I almost
clamour for breath
as I look down
from the clifftop
into the churn
and deep throated rumble
of a swell heaving upwards
to gulp at rock, weed and air
in a frenzy of foam.
There is a strange
gravity exerted by such
power that seems
to pull upon the mind,
to feel my fragile life
lipped on the edge
of a plummeting drop
a mere step or stumble
away from death.
I anchor myself
to the ledge, dare to lean
forward and stare
into that which awaits
if I were to fall,
to glimpse nothingness,
oblivion or something more,
a floating shred,
the leftover foam
from the source of it all.
it is impossible not to hear the joy on the street
the super heroes, astronauts and princesses are shrieking with happiness
you can hear them as they hit the porch with their stomping feet
“Trick or Treat” is yelled to you from many directions
Mothers and fathers are standing on the sidewalk
One of them gives you a wave
I nod my head, then give the little hands their treat
Some people force a trick; not me
I understand the goal is to hit as many houses as possible
the luxury of being an innocent child is overlooked and misunderstood
I try to not take it for granted
Grateful they are giggling and dancing as they skip down the walk
Some said “thank you” others did not; I like them all.
Glad God has granted me another year to give out treats to these darlings
so called life has been quite an abrasion
he did not receive what he wanted
knows not really what he may need
only that is has been more than a minor graze
the old foe depression is creeping in with force
by now should be an expert in melancholy
but knowledge and willpower cannot suffice
when emptiness is abundant in full force
Phoenix’s wings are so full of ashes
from when Icarus flew too close to the sun
all rays are deflected by the prism of delusion
it feels so ice cold frozen lonely and futile
washed away in dried tears he seeks a beginning
accepts that suffering starts in the mind
remembers that one year Hiroshima
a Ginko tree at the epicentre blossomed once more
he is only a speck in the Universe of vital forces
but it is his blip and glitch of malfunction
the comet has crashed and no eagle has landed
maybe not his call but only his very own calling
tattoos up and down arms, called sleeve
give skin a rest, a little reprieve
It sits there, motionless, buried under unread mail in the drawer,
The once-sharp scissors my dad brought from his childhood home in Nepal,
Its blades now rusty, dull, and sore,
It sits there, motionless, waiting for a final call.
It waits through slammed doors, late-night apologies, and birthdays,
Eager for a chance to get picked up and put to work,
Just like it did in my dad's college days,
It waits patiently, preventing itself from bursting like a firework.
It holds its breath in the dark,
Yearning for a warm and loving hand,
Like the one that packed it and crossed the world to leave its mark,
It holds its breath, hopeful for a future in this new land.
For now, the drawer remains shut,
Where our family's Nepali history leaves its silver trace,
There lie resilient blades that time failed to cut,
Resting quietly in this loud, chaotic place.
the chances are it is not love
who has abandoned whom
it is you who prefers to walk
in some air of perfection
where we all should lounge
by some ideal meandering stream
where an ambiance of forever spring
strolls along water's edge
you have been too long absorbed
in some wayward messenger
fumbling away the message
in your air of perfection
you are the beggar dreaming of horses
a poor Lotherio with little success
one who has yet to learn
the greatest lesson in love
you cannot give away
let alone hope to have
love demands devotion
asks nothing for itself
you have wasted a gift
free from the Most High
Oregon 9/28/26
TO BEING AS IF A DOVE FROM ABOVE
Life’s more
than living
it is also giving
and receiving
before leaving
all you had to bear
and even adore
before closing
its living door
with nothing more
to be given or to share
and the greatest more of all
should be how you had a ball
in the given task from God above
that always kept you in labors of love:
so
go
and live a life of love
as if
God’s
dove
sent
from
above;
life lived as God’s bird of whom all have heard:-
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