I looked at her pictures ,.
looking up at the ceiling... asked myself
Wasn't supposed to feel this...it is
Just another smile, right? Then
Why won't my heart shut up?
I care about her, .
Checked if she's online,
thought about her for a sec
checked on the last text she sent
Since when did I start waiting on texts?
Since when did silence started carrying a name?
I'm in love with her, .
Didn't mean to fall.
But she's in every poem now,
Even the ones I never wrote..
Archive May'25
While writing this, I remember feeling trapped between shock and surrender. As though I had caught myself committing small acts of devotion without permission. Returning to old messages. Staring too long at photographs. Inventing reasons to check whether someone was there. Oh This appears harmless in isolation but, when gathered together, it's not too healthy. Yk there is a strange horror in realizing that someone has become important to you. The moment a feeling stops asking for entry cz it has already moved in. Like finding a candle burning in an abandoned room and realizing someone has been living there much longer than you knew.
Rain-soaked communities,
Flooded roads,
Muddy pathways,
Sleeping in solitude of silence at nightfall.
Neglected communities,
Uneven and pebbled roads,
Living in the shadows of civilisation,
Struggling to rise,
Weakened by the tranquillity of the unspoken.
Deprived communities,
Lacking the benefits of novelty of time,
Caught in the web of delayed progress,
Gazing into dark reflections.
Affable communities,
Where strangers are not lost in the meadow,
Awakening communities,
Still connecting the dots that brighten tomorrow.
April 21, 2026.
Dawn, a bed comes ashore,
dripping and fog laden.
Tuna sandwiches float
on foaming waves of nausea,
aqueous globs of salty oils,
surface. Punctured sea-dreams
float; flabby and flatulent.
The day paddles around aimlessly,
tides, rather than wait,
slosh about spongy ankles.
A rubber flipper mislaid
off the Normandy coast,
slipstreams through time,
one lost sand-encrusted flip-flop
bobs on by.
May have to snorkel longer
if there is any hope of seeing
the sun sink.
Eventually aquatic ghosts
depart for a younger past.
Back on the swaying deck
of a queasy reality
a fresh wind dries sheets.
Footprints in the sand
are spied through a fisheye lens.
A shipwrecked yesterday
is waving,
glad to be finally rescued.
"I would like to see you living in better conditions." Hafiz
Exiled and devoured by smart bombs,
The alchemy of history, rises above
The dazzling explosions, and the fury of shock waves.
Read the winds that blow in time’s face,
Of high struggles and passages of hope
Between the margins and the dreams,
Recurring parentheses in ancient books.
They live in their offering, their fists of courage.
| From lack of reason, to quotients of densest space
| Through the iris of an eye, voids are commonplace
| Stubborn pervasive doubt, projects across the face
| Reassured again when mindsets find a bright place
| Still if one can’t see god, photons will bring a trace
| Filtered through life’s prism, heaven refracts apace
In various places, flowers will grow,
But thrive best in peculiar climates
Most suited for the particular variety.
Narrow margins can be most profitable.
Many flowers are picked in the early mornings
And commercially flown to distant destinations
Where their use is not a luxury but a necessity.
Narrow margins can be most profitable.
The fragrance must hold and be bold, because
Looks alone will not suffice regardless of the
Price if the aroma is not enticing and strong.
Narrow margins can be most profitable.
The merchants' margins may be narrow, but they
Remain worry-free if the flower's fragrance is inviting.
And like magic, profits in other areas are exciting.
Narrow margins can be most profitable.
021824PS
I can’t draw,
but I paint
I still sin,
but a saint
I talk best
when I’m mute
All I’ve lost
in pursuit
I begin
at the middle
And end
at the start
To give back
to the silence
This thing
—we call art
(The New Room: March, 2021)
Life's margins are too narrow for proofreading: a poor catch of extra commas, profiles of girls and monograms of insomnia. For literature, an earthly life is just a couple of words in a not too coordinated sentence, let alone the poetry: here the author's headache determines the character's lifetime, here the area of a paper sheet limits his rectangular space of life… At this moment the protagonist is wondering why his black coat, which he puts on only once a year on Christmas Eve when visiting his wife in Woodlawn Cemetery, is worn through and why a lonely old poet is so cold in December in New-York?
should author tell him
I don't think so life's margins
are too narrow for
19.12.2019
The Darker Side Of Christmas Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
Dawn, and my bed comes ashore,
dripping fog-laden fronds.
I feed my mind
manna of minced shark
and Barracuda.
I dislike tuna,
so I make a tuna sandwich;
wet foaming waves,
aqueous globs of salty oils,
some mayo. I must be waterlogged
by sea-dreams.
The day swims around aimlessly,
time sloshes.
A rubber flipper
once lost off the Normandy coast,
briefly surfaces;
one sand-encrusted flip-flop floats by.
I may have to snorkel
if I am ever going to see
the sun go down.
Seeing life pass them by
swaying between sleep and death
Hypnotised
Anesthetised
Paralysed
Living on the margins of life
Like a background actor
Dumb
Watching
Wishing
dreaming of becoming alive
full hearts
full
stop
She sleeps with a copy of Stephen King's The Shining under her pillow.
The knife was left on the kitchen sink; the gun to her head out of ammo.
She writes, but has no pen to stab with-
just a finger to make herself sick
Reflection screams "I want to be perfect!" and the mirror shut up!
How can she? How can she? She will fight; she'll work for it, she's been working
a new page; fresh - running out, wasted
so much paper wasted already
She writes in the margins, left there for someone to open the book and see
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