Dark grey first autumn breath a bone chill hint,
summer’s sun- rash boom absconds on trailing glint,
luscious terrain brazen in hue’d rose cheek,
hazy mountain slope a sombre damp peak,
tint and tapestry awakened brisk fall gasp,
dapper drift net shades spawned to grasp,
pigment in meadow mould a gold rim beige,
tone shift bold red, earth brown, copper rage,
sweet gum tree orange, purplish fervent die,
to sniff katsura pink tree, charred candy sigh,
hail harvest bountiful, heart rippling feast,
red fire ablaze, hungry tongue wild yeast
beetroot, turnip, parsnip, root crops galore,
“Falls” raw lungs whiff hearty soup of yore,
yet honey-tinged morn, fleet of foot pause,
fades as cold plummet primes its icy claws,
green copse shrunk, drab moon weepy tune,
woodsy wren hoarding food in mournful croon.
mud squelch booth on path, smog purged lair,
wet moss splurge rinses pollen, season gulps air
Thus left, whilst shrunk before it
World, as outsider
Knew it, through quivering dread
As a whole, crueler.
Then, once reached for, nor let drop
One hand of friendship
As soon felt, as gift therein
With the all, kinship.
Bee sat on drooped lotus
Days back lovey abloom lotus
was at focus
of fluttering butterfly and humming bees
in rapture to capture
fragrance and nectar.
Now lotus drooped with shrunk wrinkled petals
floats on marshy mossy low pond.
Swarm of flies assemble
on bosom of withered blossom.
Willow standing on wet muddy brim
mourns in silent scream
weeping watching dry deceased flower
abandoned by bees and butterflies..
Bumble bee sat idle on bosom of drooped lotus
with its broken antenna..
The aim of news is to widespread anxiety
To add more stress inside and out just for fun
We play the readers, posing the society
Among those out for a morning run
The social myth about the media is trivial
Nobody opens stuff under the good headlines
Bad stuff’s far more attractive and believable
We feel the edge of these ill-fated times
But what’s left in the end, reminds a song
Yesterday’s Papers by the Stones, it gives some tips
Although the papers didn’t last too long
Weren’t they useful at the time for wrapping chips
These days we serve the digital completeness
Newspapers gone, our chips are boxed and wet
Tactility gets shrunk, that dual purpose sweetness
Remains a memory, which hasn’t faded yet.
Body on the bed burns with fever.
Morning seems brighter, yellowish.
sunlight soaks my dirt-shrunk shirt.
A small page slips from a book,
written: "Take care of yourself."
Liquid gathers in the corners of the eyes.
That silent evening - "yes,"
a touch of her soft hand.
And tired legs roamed through a long day.
Two or three promises were counted
at day's end, the last rays of the sun faded.
Dusk creepily settles in dreamy eyes.
Thunder shudders my fragmented thoughts.
The curtain laps slothfully in a mild wind.
Raindrops drizzle, pattering outside -
Fresh pink petals stare from the green lawn.
Come February
This is the last day of January 2026
It has been a long month; my surgery took
more out of me than I thought
I have shrunk the trousers' legs too long. I have
to fold them so they do not fall over
I have been thinking of Ernest Hemingway
He had a gun and knew how to use it
I never had a weapon; one needs a license, but I could
Say it is for protection
If I ask for one bullet, they will say I need
a clip, how many bullets are there, six?
I'm painfully sober, a glass of red wine wouldn't
Come a miss, I'm optimistic with a drink
Again, I think of Ernst Hemingway, who avoided
the indignity of old age
Can’t get enough of power they achieve
By thorough care about our security
They want us, little people, to believe
That their business is of our responsibility
They transferred all the services to AI
They claim that travel is a privilege to earn
I’m sure it is, my sweet authorities, that’s why
I’m globally homebound at your concern
I start forgetting where exactly have I been
in recent times, apart of Spar and other market
across the road, - at home I shrunk inside my skin
My rights are swiped under the worn red carpet
AI police tracks what I write online
How cheerful is my stuff, how well it fits
To their standards, that I should consider mine
I follow rules designed by artificial wits
Come if you are a human, come to talk
Let’s be like anyone we didn’t care to know
We may discuss whatever topics, by the walk
Across the road and back, on trampled snow.
smooth polka dotted grandma
wrinkly and crinkly now
her eyes are shrunk
some teeth are jagged
she is raggedy
jealous of her fifty-year-old-self
This shelter, most sturdy
For friendship
Is by them erected;
The female.
Men scratch heads! When that on
The inside
Shrunk back from is measured
For a gale!
Violently overwrought.
Sob on sob.
Whiny. Bewilders! Noise
Off the scale!
Walked down the corridor of my
school and realised
The walls still bare your scent,
the benches still hold your
memory, your voice is the loudest
one in the echoes of the halls
The doors have shrunk to my
height and it just hit me now,
how little we were when we
found joy in admiring each other
secretly
She was about to adorn memory’s wings,
She would conjure the most wondrous things.
This life has shrunk to a mere fleeting trace,
It was meant for a journey of much grander grace.
She sold her sleep to buy herself dreams,
She who even in dreaming slept, or so it seems.
She who can never return was once a part,
That dwelt in the corner of my heart.
In longing and desire’s yearning embrace,
Her innocent light was fading from grace.
What comfort remains in pain now that she’s gone away,
She who once wept so softly is lost in dismay.
In the bird’s eye glistens sorrow and tears,
The hunter’s gun will soon sleep for endless years.
dusty room full of junk;
creaking wooden floorboards.
small dollhouse, somehow shrunk,
lies nestled, treasured time.
aging, darkened ember;
old, beat -up wooden trunk.
I wish that it was Christmas time -
in the future when
my son and his new wife
have had their children then,
and they are surrounded
by family -
grandmothers, grandfathers,
including me,
and three thousand miles
has shrunk to none,
and their kids call me grandpa,
and we can have fun,
and the smell of pies is in the air,
and the Christmas tree is blinking -
where it is warm inside,
and the grownups are all drinking,
and to every grandkid sleepy head,
I say sternly, "it's time for bed",
and they argue a priori,
"Grandpa, read us a story!"
Townhouse crackers
Is the best
Can they really past the test
You have shrunk so
Much in size
I don't think that was wise
But your rich flavor
Still stands
Because you're the best brand
The murky dirty pond now dark and dank,
trees without their leaves are stark and cold,
remaining shrubs have shrunk into the bank,
a chilling breeze means winter may take hold.
The moon then turns her orb toward the scene
and shimmers on the pool to bring it life.
Shadows from the trees grow tall and keen
like sentinels on guard throughout the night.
Snowflakes cover towns in sparkling dust
in layers thick like icing on a cake.
The moon light glistens, now the scene is brushed,
as twinkles flicker, night is now awake.
The pond, no longer dark, but lit by moonlight,
the town with moon and snow becoming bright.
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