Bluegill shines in sun.
He hangs in the clear water.
Look! A tasty worm!
Yesterday's love is lost to time
Buried upon the hill I climb
Her name is etched in marble stone
By her grave, I hung a wind chime
To dance with the winds that now moan
Each day, anguish and pain I own
I picture her face with each tear
Revealed when I'm at her tombstone
Where her voice is soft, yet I hear
This imagined sound I revere
The pain in my heart will not mend
Takes me to a madness I fear
The timeline of life can not bend
So in my night dreams, I pretend
Where we go through time and relive
There I will stay until my end
A man h
a
n
g
s
A life g o n e
They call it a suicide -
But then why is there blunt force trauma to the head?
Why does the evidence not agree with what is being said?
They reveal he is,
BLACK,
But not only that,
They claim now it is an accident
They P A N I C,
Covering up their lies,
How they despise -
Us
They d
a
n
c
e
Around the truth:
This was - MURDER,
This was - RACISM,
This fact is inescapable, for evidence does NOT lie
Kids’ chatter no more knows this house,
A ghost-like life grows in this house.
It hangs on still in deep hunger
Of sounds. To stillness bows this house.
Clean tiles waiting to be muddied,
Soiled floor no more shows in this house.
Wishful hopes long turned to despair,
Heard are wails of woes in this house.
Where’s he, long hailed by this name plate?
Seeds of doubt now sows in this house.
Doors duly locked for a while now,
Void stares through windows in this house.
Hum of life no more in this house,
What sombre chill goes in this house!
_____________________________
Ghazal | 05.12.2025 | children, house, memories, old age, pathos
Note: Human body is like a house on hire and gets old before one realizes. Yet, well before that it lives through thousand hopes, aspirations, and expectations, many of them dying as mere hopes--unrealized. Old age is the last phase of life, but far from its end. Body gets old, hopes nor mind. In this ghazal, old age is looked at as an old house that has seen many of these hopes slipping away. Memories only what remain.
Ah hope, what an enduring bait!
It hides the hook to hibernate
Till chances come to knock
And ship anchors at dock,
Serene like storks hope opts to wait--
As clued as a clock clicks,
Tick-tock, tick-tock as ticks
Till luck bites on a distant date.
___________________________
Musings | 13.11.2025 | hope, humour, fate, limerick
Note: Indeed, luck is for him who hangs on in hope, hiding the bait. Luck only bites on the due date. But those that lose hope give up.
It hangs there
Suspended
A wave
Waiting to break
Surge
Upon the beach
Play
In the sand
Giggle
In its foam froth
Whisper
To the rolling stones
Exit
Chasing a fading
S
U
N
S
E
T
A screen door
creaks
small incursions
into rip and hole.
Unseen, a creeping grub and thriving,
chitinous mandibles
munch upon the desiccated dead,
thrive in the thrash and mingle.
Corruption forms its disorderly queue,
jointed question marks
walk on segmented legs
spindly limbs pry
where slick eggs incubate.
As time swings its metronome,
splintered chips
flake away, wood
cracks its rotting bones.
Internal scaffoldings
crumble,
mold multiplies,
mildew clings to
muck.
A festering wriggles forth.
"Honey, can you oil the back door,
it's creaking again."
I scrunch my butt deeper into the sofa.
"I'll get on it after the game." I say,
making a mental note
to get more beers in,
Tomorrow, slap some paint
over the wormholes
maybe.
its whimper sounds like a whisper, it slips as it slithers away
the loud fear it left on my mind still spins my spine
i run, forgetting my heart is still hanging in my mouth~
it pounds like a tornado blowing through my veins
the ricochets of its anger shudder even my tiniest nerves
our nights and days will never cross paths again.
A moon hanging low amidst the glitter of stars,
my heart's aflutter with dire anticipation.
Together we cast golden coins in a fountain,
the darkness of the night oozing with mystery.
My heart's aflutter with dire anticipation,
the unmistakable scent of love fills the air.
Always the thought of you occupying my mind
till I summon your familiar voice in the night.
Together we cast golden coins in a fountain.
What follows is a future completely unknown
fraught with questions and answers that put us on edge,
and beyond the horizon no news, not a glimpse.
The darkness of the night oozing with mystery,
wishing for the best we will not settle for less.
We hope and we pray as we offer our plans to
a moon hanging low amidst the glitter of stars.
(this form is called Retourne)
AP: 3rd place 2025, Honorable Mention 2025, Honorable Mention 2025
November hangs on
To a blanket made of cold and grey
To the bare branches of trees clinging to the sky for the last precious moments of warm sunlight
Counting every minute of the shortened days
November hangs on
To being surrounded by memories on its long dark nights
The way our empty hands grasp on to the comfort of our covers
November hangs on to every word uttered from a lovers lips
Something to shake off the frost on our hearts when facing late Autumn's changing winds
November hangs on through every crowded street and storefront decorated with glee
Tis the happiest time for some but the loneliest time for many
I fear the morrow -
caged by past, I rip apart;
yet today's growth blossoms.
Black thorns amid snatching twigs
form sky-torn nests,
where deep red berries
hang from dark bones.
Autumn tracks have settled
into annealed ruts,
those static waves of the fridged
and fallow fields.
There are still small birds singing
in the shredded shapes of the wind,
scattered voices that rebound
from ear to ear.
We are huddled, yet solitary,
separated by inward distances.
Farms are folding shadows,
gathering-in
the years thin linins.
Beneath the chilled earth
a behemoth stir's,
a beast of steam and vapor
arising slowly
until its face can be seen
through the melting ice,
but not yet.
In a world where the land question hangs,
A plight unseen by the oblivious eye,
Lies the essence of fairness, as it clangs,
Echoes of justice, as time passes by.
For land holds power, both concrete and vast,
It shapes the destiny of those who dwell,
A struggle unfolds, present and past,
A battle fought through corridors as well.
Some claim the soil as their birthright divine,
While others yearn for a piece of their own,
Inequities persist, an ancient sign,
As hearts cry out, their voices set to moan.
But let us seek a just and common ground,
Where dreams of home can finally be found.
Where did Ms. Cat go?
Just hanging around.
Snicker. Snicker.
Is this a cryptic message or what?
I ask another neighbor.
Sure, she is hanging around, he says.
Then he laughs.
I finally find her tangled in the window blinds.
Funny! I tell the others.
And really kind of you to help her down.
It actually takes three of us.
Two have to hold the blinds still while she escapes.
Improper placement of a soup spoon
topples a marriage gone wrong
Recalling your voice in a war zone
keeps my heart beating strong
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