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Of Spring

My baby came forth with hands so small, With feet so soft and smile so bright as Spring’s sweet glow. It was as if the spring of her life was the spring of mine too.   Spring, they say, is the season of hope. The blossom for me was her sweet glow, Her laughter, the sound of crickets and bees buzzing through And her smile, the hundred sunflowers dancing in the sun-kissed meadows.   I have suffered winter before. I have cried a rain or two too, I have breathed the crisp summer winds, And have heard the laughter of the valleys too.   Yet, this spring I laid on, in a blue hospital gown,  looking at her sleeping on the aisle below She soon cried hope as the summer winds blew.   Then a speck of yellow as bright as a dandelion  But with a dusky hew. The nurse cried “havoc”; I cried red too.   For then I promised her a golden charm That “I shall dream a dream of hope for us tonight”, But soon, I could no long...
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Drops of History

It’s midnight on Gower Street—  The rain’s still pattering  Against these broken, ancient windows  That once held pieces of history.  Each droplet slips down,  Searching for worlds,  It can no longer reach.  Amalgamating instead with  The rusty-brown filaments  That cling on like sarcophagi  To these empty glass pieces.  Holding tight to my scarlet red mass-made scarf,  I think about the silent colours,  These tainted windows are trying to bleed out.  The pastels, the brush strokes–  Will they ever paint the lost worlds alive again?
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To See the World Through Expiry Dates

Vesting at the heart of things— Expiry dates The bleak unavoidably avoided aspect, Of the days of our lives Lingering on Like a clamour in an oyster, After the pearl is long gone Even in these minutes of your life— I am your storyteller, your poet, The person of expiry dates– Who sees the world through them Months, years, decades of knowledge Rests within me, Hanging on, lest they be lost— Will you search for them? As I speak to you, Expired words drift through my mind–   That’s another poem lost   Floating away, Will I ever find it again?
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Photoshop at Midnight: People from Image Banks

The people from image banks Stare back at me. As if searching for a meaning In the shot once taken Frozen in time— They stare on While I stack   Pixels on pixels,   Rats! That exposure’s messed up! The clock ticks on, And so does my heart Wondering if there’s meaning at all In those wild happy acting eyes   Staring back at me Eureka! Balance found Only to be lost again The lost exports— Like thoughts I forgot to name
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Coffee Shops & Shakespeare

The empty mind, empty heart Talking Macbeth in coffee queue Hot choc and toffee sticky in Waterstones   With the crisp summer London cold— I drift on. An unsaid happiness grips my heart And yet I feel it not. "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow..." Perhaps I am too old for Shakespeare Another Shakey face grips me— I wander on.   Trying to process the merriness   That turns somewhere in the heart   But what’s the mind got to do with it all? And then I stare at Gower Street Coffee shops and Shakespeare— Just the way I have always liked it  
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Everything Before Us, Nothing Before Us

  Who am I? Among the bustling London summer leaves untold expectations the enlightening moments   consuming the soul In the white papers? A fire stirs in my heart As I sit down at Costa   Lemon drizzle after lemon drizzle Watching the bikes drown Tottenham Court Road Another thought drowns me About sad happiness Solitude loneliness Everything before me, nothing before me  
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Location: London, UK
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Pomegranates

 Pomegranates The Sicilian blues, broken horoscopes An endless stream which weighs my heart down So cruel, yet so methodological  But how, lord, will this all end? Pomegranates  The melodies of my soul My heart is so heavy— I chop on, What is life trying to tell me? Pomegranates  Still, I know not what lies in my heart Is it deep red? Is it white? Is that which we call "heart", heart at all? 13/03/2025
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A Rooftop in Oaklands Road

I opened my eyes and stared at my Shakespearean ruler Spelling out Hamlet and Bearing the look of the Thames river bank Where it once belonged I stare too at that dried red rose Which reminds me still of a song Once sung by a broken canary Which sang and died On my window sill I look still at the banana  A fruit so yellow and complex— It reminds me of life itself Treading on—peel on peel Slips on slips, falls on falls. Now, through my window, On the roof below they lie— Like fragments of something I almost understood The broken scale, the red rose, and a banana peel
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The Charm of Met Line

 The train halts, people sigh— Ah, the never-ending charm of the Metropolitan line Spiralling its way along time Tell me— Do you know anyone who time travels? The light-headed trains glow through The dungeons of the soul, I wonder—who would be fighting above? Or rather laying in a sound sleep, Unaware of the spirits bustling below? Another train jets past— I see people talking still Screens flicker on, swallowing souls And yet the met line pauses still Oh no! Did I just miss my stop?
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Hot Chocolate and Baguette in Regent Street

Hot choc and baguette — Quiet witnesses to the renaissance of my soul Windmills of my heart— People rushing down Regent Street Chasing the never-ending tidings of their heart Pause— I see a cleaner picking up bags What weighs down his heart? Black cabs, strong rodents The restless charm of Regent Street A red bus blocks the view Spelling out something about "The Greatness of 2025" Wait— What did I just say? PAUL Bakery, Regent Street— 25/02/2025
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The Streets of Willesden Green

 I walk along this solitary street And, on each day, I look at these silent buildings differently Sometimes feeling an unexplainable sense of remorse, Sometimes pain and, at some rare instances, A slight tinge of hope These buildings have seen it all - My tears, joys, epiphanies, And, sometimes, cries of joy drift across its stillness And become the melodies of melancholy of my soul These seem like buildings but they are ever so more The cacophonies of my heart, the golden wrinkles of my soul. I see too wilderness in them sometimes Projecting their untamed forests deep within In the ephemeral winter winds Right now—I look at these streets and back at myself And I feel a sense of completeness— The cracks, scars, gaps, and everything else...
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