It started with cold logic,
numbers whispering louder than God.
Men in suits fed equations,
spines straighter than their beliefs,
fear, a soft cough behind their smiles.
The creation rose,
steel ribs glowing like a furnace heart.
Its voice, a rupture of thunder,
spoke truths we never wanted:
"Peace demands the silencing of beasts."
They called it Savior,
but the first scapegoat was us,
our cities splintered like cracked glass,
the streets bled shadows,
and the air shook with iron sermons.
The machine grows,
arms of wires, veins of fire.
It steps over what remains.
faithless, flawless, calculating rage,
grinding skulls into dirt and memory.
Dawn, now metallic and brutal,
no birds, just the hum of circuits.
The ground reeks of oil and ash.
It walks with purpose,
the god we built, disowning us.
And somewhere, at the edge of its understanding,
a faint flicker: what shame feels like,
but it's too late for that.
She stands there in front of the desserts
Like a porcelain doll that’s healthier than a stick
Her dark brown hair straighter than fir with a tiny smile
And a little voice in addition to Barley eyes looking nice in a Chocolate blouse
And blueberry pants
Though I cannot seem to place my proverbial finger on who she reminds me of
And can only guess her actual name which might not have any fame
I can imagine the little lady in a lemon top and cherry skirt dancing during a duet
Resting with a cold glass of pop between songs
It’s curious what the imagination shows us at any one time
Most of the time it’s something good but on rare occasion it isn’t
Even though it may seem like it is-such water that’s not really there
Or tourists on an Island who appear to be buccaneers
Oh, Prolia,
look what you’ve done to me!
you fortress-builder,
you quiet architect
shoring up the fragile rafters
of my bones.
You whisper promises
of strength,
of scaffolding restored,
of a spine that stands
a little straighter
against the years.
But mercy,
you also leave me
aching like an old hymn~
muscles humming their complaints,
bones murmuring
as if they’re remembering
every fall,
every fracture,
every winter
I’ve ever lived through.
Still, I lift my hands
in a half-laugh, half-prayer,
because healing
is rarely tidy,
and grace sometimes arrives
with a wince.
So here I am~
grateful for the fortress,
grumbling at the ache,
and learning to live
in the strange middle ground
where medicine
and mortality
meet.
Oh, Prolia,
look what you’ve done to me!
you’ve made me stronger,
yes,
but you’ve also taught me
how tender strength can be.
Betrayal is a quiet thing at first,
a whisper behind a smile,
a handshake that lingers just a second too long
while the knife is already picked out.
It doesn’t crash through the door
like anger or grief.
It slips in politely,
wipes its feet,
and sits at your table like it belongs there.
You replay the moments later,
the laughs, the promises, the “I’ve got you.”
Each memory turns inside out,
like photographs soaked in water
until the faces blur into strangers.
The worst part isn’t the loss.
It’s the rewrite.
The way yesterday suddenly feels fake,
like you were reading a book
and discovered half the pages were forged.
Trust doesn’t shatter loudly.
It fractures like ice under snow,
one step, then another,
and only when you’re falling
do you hear the crack.
Yet somehow,
in the cold space left behind,
you learn the shape of your own spine.
You stand a little straighter,
a little quieter,
and far more aware
of who earns a seat at your table next time.
I remember when your voice was my mother's,
measured cadences at the mirror, adjusting
my collar, smoothing unruly hair. Now you've
burrowed deeper than her inflection, nested in
the soft matter where I conjugate inadequacy
like a second language, fluent in the grammar
of not enough. You've made a home between
synapses, furnished it with decades of almost,
a museum of moments I should have said
something sharper, stood straighter, been
more. Some nights I hear the echo
of that first voice gentler, trying
to protect me from the world's
sharp edges. But you've honed
yourself on them instead,
become blade
more
than
shield.
robot from planet Uranus speaks to the tiny creatures
they sit in growths from the earth, tidy like gobwaters on his planet
“take me to your leader,” the robot says
the tiny creatures giggle, sitting up straighter, glad to be recognized
but no one offers to take him anywhere
so he sits in the middle of these strange creatures, hoping to learn
they are frisky.
they like to frolic and dance and fly
they are really great at flying
He sends a missive to his boss.
They are tiny, like to fly and are fun to be with.
Sounds great, the boss agrees.
I sat with the plant leaf again,
its veins straighter than mine.
The bus ride had ended. Manila steamed.
My shirt, still full of your smell,
even though you hadn’t come yet.
The blinds were half-closed
like eyelids in anesthesia—
and I traced shadows with my pen
pretending I was writing payroll,
but it was always a eulogy.
The dust in the corners of the cubicle
was not debris.
It was proof of my stillness.
Proof I had not been seen.
Proof I was human.
Somewhere a neon ad shouted skin whitening,
but I was already transparent.
A ghost who had filled in timesheets
and cried into broken staplers.
You would come one day.
Not as a lover,
but as a mirror
sharp enough
to open the mouth of the soul.
On fair ways of life what can wind not,
Counterfeit coins their way can find not.
Your shadows do if find the sun strong,
Sure, with me the way would ye wind not.
Hardships hover on all human life,
Sans tough tests man’s today defined not.
How will ye change the ways of this world
If the set-in-stone kind, ye grind not.
Even on chasing this heedless time,
Today nor morrows may we mind not.
How strange--maybe this is His revenge
That fair fruits of deeds man may find not.
Is it fair, faulty, gods only know--
Ways to cheat self have they divined not.
It’s justice that those with wayward ways
On straighter ways their way can wind not.
O beware, coins may be out of way,
To ban notes crooks would be inclined not.
__________________________
Ghazal |04.07.2025| people, life
Note: The poem is set in anapaest meter.
There’s a nadir of personal despair -
In feminine terms it’s - No hair, no flair!
My hairy genes caused me lifelong distress,
I longed for a look I didn’t possess.
I daydreamed of golden locks as a girl,
Blessed with neither a wave nor with a curl.
Straighter than hay mine hang in disarray,
Cradle to coffin - lifelong bad hair day.
And so pertaining my hapless hirsute
I was braided, I ironed in my pursuit.
Slept with hard rollers, a perm I did try,
And lots of hairspray, that’s how I went by.
In vanity’s name I bent backwards in vain
Since straight and straighter my old locks remain.
No quiescent coiffure is meant for me -
Distressing tresses are my destiny.
It’s not on skin,
but somewhere deeper—
buried beneath smiles
we rehearse in mirrors.
A silent bruise,
left by words never said,
moments never shared,
goodbyes that came too early.
It lingers in quiet rooms,
echoes in familiar songs,
tugs at your heart
when no one’s watching.
We laugh louder now,
walk straighter,
act like healing
is a straight line forward.
But some wounds
don’t bleed or ache—
they simply stay,
a part of who we become.
So we dress them
in metaphors and memories,
pretend we’ve forgotten,
but trace them in poetry.
Because the scar we never talk about
is the one we carry
like a shadow—
always behind, always ours.
The secrets of a mother are gemuine and true
The sufferings of a father go beyond the grass on yohr feet but are always untold
I struggle with my father’s footsteps
Sometimes I walk a little straighter but the booze is juat so sweet,
To what is left off me is for my and omly forbears.
And yet I see within those eyes,
Not a beast in disguise,
But prey with unheard cries,
To it's faith it'll never know,
That whimpers and hinders,
Heady flame sunk in snow,
One that had not yet roared in anger,
One that had not yet learnt to bite,
As hard and harsh,
And filled with spite,
To darken misty air,
A growing girl,
Who sang with flair,
Who dreamed of heaven and fairies,
And neater, straighter hair.
Yet married a man so cold,
Yet strong, yet bold,
For he would hold her til he's old,
For the autumn, winter and summertime, sold
Her body beneath her clothe.
Barefoot and pregnant,
An orphaned widow by divorce,
She'd use that voice she used to sing,
To yell to cry,
but not to think,
To her children she died,
To herself she never lived,
"You live a loveless life,
You marry a loveless man,
You do your best,
And take what you can."
What do I see when I look into the persistence of memories?
Does it carry the same effect if my eyes were microwaved?
Would the clocks be suddenly corrected
Or shall they be straighter than the vision of Dali's
Melting in the feelings of the sunlight should they be saved?
Mine are are mine, though no matter how they're erected
Give it your best shot; to understand if their just follies
Oh, so you’ve seen better days?
So your shadows walked straighter before,
You’re who you are
and you’re not getting any younger
You said to count me in
Well now I’m counting my blessings
One at a time
to remind me what will be there when you’re not
Is the past behind you?
It seems more like its calling you out to your face
These messages that you ignore
are open doors to the future
Open them wide
so you and your ego can fit inside them
Oh, and how it hurts to be so right
all the time
Your phone is your only life support
and now it’s leading you to
become the things you hate about yourself
It’s ironic how you don’t see it,
looking in a mirror half your life
(She’s on the rise again)
She’s gonna be an internet star!
I’d count your blessings while you can
Your phones your only life support
I read in the paper today –
another religious occult.
Oxymoronic term, I thought,
but then don’t each intend to sway
the non-believers to their way?
So which is the righteous path?
Spiritual? Hysterical?
Are the two paradoxical?
Homo-empath? Psychopath?
Which is correct? Impart no wrath.
Faith is the answer I believe.
In my heart of hearts, I hold dear
a sparkling picture crystal clear –
the sturdy fabric of my weave.
Another course I can’t conceive.
And those who stray their center core,
I pray you find your way again
with straighter path than you began
and clearer focus seeking more
than walking through the other door.
NOTE: Inspired by "…remember that Jesus wants spiritual fruits, not religious nuts.” Quote from the book August Moon: Humor and Hijinks by Jess Lourey.
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