I find myself with just myself
reflecting on undelivered letters
of winter past--
the most bitter front
glazing evenings where a fireplace
becomes a chilled shelter
of sharp, dazed musings :
I travel within time's slow compass
when a season ago...
you left unnoticed , without closure
And my soul burned in the
ragged kiln of night chapters...
not a lint of words crawled
between us,
leaving me searching for
blank pages of despicaple darkness.
Pastel pages turn and turn,
colour mix turning to burn.
Foster baby cries its first,
bursts of today taking its turn.
Every shade will have its season,
every fire will find its reason.
Blister pack locked it in,
soaking up packets of sin.
Last moments in the soup,
regaining a sense to recoup.
Hold the light against the glass,
let the colours drift and pass.
Nothing owed and nothing lost,
only the turning, only the cost.
Past the future round and round,
pure chaos in master the sound.
Beauty in the knowing.
Everything showing.
Bayt al-Hikma
Ancient pages breathe.
Books outlive every throne.
Ink crossed rivers.
The library vanished.
Knowledge shapes tomorrow.
Its wisdom still walks with us.
The cursing blank
pages held
traces of
knavish hooded
knights riding
forward for the
sake of
scum un-
godly kings.
With a stroke of your brush,
the magic begins,
The lion grows fur and a
proud, golden chin.
The elephant trumpets and
steps off the page,
While a colorful parrot flies
out of its cage.
A blue dolphin leaps from a
bright painted sea,
And a furry brown monkey
swings down from a tree.
A tall striped giraffe reaches
up to the skies,
While a soft bunny hops as
the purple ink dries.
Every animal wakes with a
splash and a gleam,
In the magical book where
the pages can dream.
A golden griffin flies right
off the sheet,
A purple unicorn prances
near your feet.
A friendly sea serpent
splashes in the blue,
While tiny pixies blow
sparkles over you.
Close up the book until next
time they meet.
I kissed the rain and it flitted
away
like a precocious teenage tryst
~when wet lips taunted
the shivering dew on a morning rose.
but, roses were always too mature,
for adolescent whims and
too sophisticated to be genuine,
and way too honest to embrace
pledges of forever...
After many years we open to a page
where a crimson flower was pressed
and wonder why
its fragile existence was ~ saved?
We don’t fight.
We don’t raise our voices or slam doors.
We just… exist beside each other now.
The silence isn’t peaceful anymore.
It’s full of all the things we don’t say.
Small complaints tucked under our tongues.
“Why didn’t you notice?”
“Why do you act like that?”
Questions that never make it past our teeth.
I don’t trust the way I used to.
Not with a storm —
but with a slow leak.
The kind that drains you
without you realizing the tank is empty.
In the beginning, his name felt like home.
Now it feels like a room I’m careful in.
I still love him.
I just don’t feel _held_ the same way.
We’re not broken.
We’re just unresolved.
Two people reading different drafts
of the same story,
pretending the missing pages don’t matter..
FOLDED PAGES FILL BOXES AND BINS
FINGER PRINTS STAIN WHERE SPIT
WAS USED TO TURN THE PAGES
MY NOVEL SCREAMS OUT FOR
RESPITES FROM MY TEAK WOOD
DESK MEMORIES FADE BECOMING
DIM ABRUPTLY SHINING A LIGHT
AT THE BOTTOM OF THE DOOR A LEAF
FALLS WRITERS BLOCK HAS GONE HOME
FOR A SEASON I SUPPOSE AN YET
I'M NOT WILLING TO PUT PEN TO
PAPER I'M NOT WILLING TO WRITE
I'M NOT WILLING TO TYPE WHY I'M
NOT WILLING TO LISTEN TO MY MUSES
CHANTING FROM AFAR AS BANGLADESH
DANCES COLORFUL CHIMES GEMS JINGLES
AS THE ELEPHANT CALMNESS ABODE STANDING
THERE STAMPING HIS FEET THE DANCE OF
A LIFETIME UNFOLDS MY PAGES ARE FLOWN
AROUND MY ROOM AS LEAVES THIS BLUSTERY
FIND MINGLING WITH MY MINDS EYE LEAVING
A RED DOT ON MY FOREHEAD MY GREATEST
NOVEL FINALLY SAY'S THEE END
By Phan Tan Hai
At midnight I trace the ancient pages,
golden dust of centuries settling thick—
hearing echoes of brushes, swords, and ink
returning to rattle open a full-moon festival.
Summoning old spirits drifting in the wind,
the Master searches, translating page by page;
comparing characters, the long night shortens,
copying lines of poetry vast as the sea.
I hear the old zither strings break into tears,
soldiers urging horses, their cries ringing out.
The Master records the soul of ink and paper,
his beard and hair dyed white by a thousand clouds.
---- Respectfully dedicated to Professor Nguyen Van Sam
I write
you into
my upturned world,
gift you wings and transformation,
strewing pixie dust through silenced skies,
aching to see you sparkle and soar,
like an eagle-winged fairy
metamorphosed
into the highest ether,
where peace is more
than a poetic phrase,
and love ~
baptized by the blues of butterfly ink,
no longer a prisoner of pain ~
caged by chaos,
as the world never knew
the burden buried beneath
your blissful smile, and lyrical laughter…..
Tonight
I miss you,
when the haze above untouched seas
bleeds nothingness,
I remember us,
when the music of grieving night
fills my life
in captivating cadence,
and I will forever
write to the swirling stars
to sigh our serene song
when the telepathic moon wanes in weariness,
for even the sky knows
we are more than
just a memoir
pressed between
purple pages of
perfumed
truth…
Blank empty pages stare at me
as my words pour and drip like red blood
in my tattered yellowing journal to wait, wait
No more waiting for a cue,
I step into the spotlight, the script unwritten but mine, the hero of my own unfolding story.
The plot twists are mine to navigate, the victories mine to celebrate. When doubt knocks, I answer with courage; when fear whispers, I roar with resolve. My story is vibrant, raw, and relentlessly mine.
So watch me rise, watch me write, watch me live fully—because this is my tale, told boldly and beautifully, every step a declaration: I am the main character of my life.
I hold the pen; I craft the narrative that defines who I am.
I make is a verse in my poem, every step a line in my script. The plot twists? I write them
This story is mine to own—no extras, no understudies. I speak loud, act bold, and live with purpose because being the main character means walking forward with courage, carving my path with confidence.
I am more than just a player in life’s theater—I am the author, director, and hero all at once. This is my story, and I’m ready to live it fiercely, unapologetically, and authentically.
dust-hushed
spine-cracked whispers~
words trapped in vellum veins
ghosts thumbing gilt-edged tragedies
quiet
No more waiting for a cue,
I step into the spotlight, the script unwritten but mine, the hero of my own unfolding story.
The plot twists are mine to navigate, the victories mine to celebrate. When doubt knocks, I answer with courage; when fear whispers, I roar with resolve. My story is vibrant, raw, and relentlessly mine.
So watch me rise, watch me write, watch me live fully—because this is my tale, told boldly and beautifully, every step a declaration: I am the main character of my life.
I hold the pen; I craft the narrative that defines who I am.
I make is a verse in my poem, every step a line in my script. The plot twists? I write them
This story is mine to own—no extras, no understudies. I speak loud, act bold, and live with purpose because being the main character means walking forward with courage, carving my path with confidence.
I am more than just a player in life’s theater—I am the author, director, and hero all at once. This is my story, and I’m ready to live it fiercely, unapologetically, and authentically.
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