Winter Verse Poems

marvel at the vigorous blade of grass,
resistant to the worst storms,
marvel at the dandelion, offering a thousand treasures
To the bees of the county,
marvel at the...

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It was all about a grim,
Foggy, smoggy, old Thursday night
In Hithergreen,
London’s belching south,
Below Europe’s icy, dark trees and
In the silence of grieving mornings . ....

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You came through quiet and refreshing like a gentle spring breeze. Far away enough from winter’s dreary wear, and soon upon us like the brightness...

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Bonding with Nature

Early Sunday morning; 
nature rattling at the front door!
I accept the invitation to bond,
stepping out with nothing more in tow
than an upturned collar
and...

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Christmas is a long song sung in winter,
An epic poem written with white quill feather pen and
Gold ink, and on clouds of paper,
Beginning from a...

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Time changes with life and life changes with time.
October grows too old,
Hobbling backwards
With the burden of years,
On the sinuous alcove of time,
Tenebrous and feathery,
Her hidden...

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To: The Country of Absence  
Date: January 8th, 2025  
Subject: Application for Residence  
Focus: Tentative hope

Dear Canada,

Here, in your vast territories of...

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Rowing with golden paddles
The water glides with quiet grace
Ripples shimmer like scattered diamonds
Smooth sailing with no thought of Winter

Summer forgets by design
Winter does not ask...

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"While the earth remains,
Seed time and harvest,
Summer and winter,
Cold and heat,
Will not cease."
Bible, Gen, 8:22

I saw the moon rising on my left.
I beheld the sun...

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In you eyes
I see the tears
Running down you face
I am not upset with you
When you are crying
I understand that
You have you sad and happy moments
Also...

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We dont have to use our voice to scream
Because a voice isn't just words
It's art, it's our presence, it's how we exist
It's being unapologetically black

Our...

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She knocks on my rib cage 
seeking access to my heart again

The knock—the pounding pestle—
taunts, its echo won’t stand to be ignored
I hold my knees...

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## I
Eleven, Tehran's burning heat—
sleeve rolled high against the summer's weight,
the Revolutionary Guard's fist finds my face
like a question mark carved in flesh.
A G3 rifle...

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i text dead people for advice.
not because they answer—
they don’t—
but because they never interrupt.
i tell my grandfather
about the boy who left mid-winter
and how my ribcage...

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Remember the picnics 
            one day they’ll be gone
     ...

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