an odd song

flies buzz around my head

a certain greatness forms

a halo infringes upon my forehead

in a moment reborn

I swipe at them but to no avail

they rally in numbers build

a heaven without wood or nail

and enthrones a worthy king

I shift they follow

a fool who tries his best to

become immaterial

mere object to the eye

phone rings

and in a brief lapse of hysteria

I tame the person on the other end

after the immediate first round

the conversation earth-bound

o tannebaum of ancient song

I recite to myself a minute long

everything eases into rhyme

and all who stands bow to time

I no longer look beguiled

to these flies that have aged.






may’s memorandum

 on the 18th she passed away

on the 23rd she was born

in the 8th hour

counting between breaths stopped

we said good-bye to may in august.






ode unbecoming

and with all that is said and done

a fado is scripted upon a stone


let our subconscious take us to the docks

where sea-farers bid farewell to wives


let the waters become our institution that

defines truth and buries injustices to the deep


and with all that is said and done

let the subconscious take us to the docks

where sea-farer and wife reunite.







 she flavours me with envy

infatuation flows out with the tide

barren shores await the majesty

of a dawn in matrimony 

the timbre in a stillness exalts

amid the pale imitation of night  

I defy our silent pledge with a touch

only to redeem the power of speech. 






masters great and small

there is no strobe of light that does not

value a home

so let the great masters find solace in the deep

shards of hypotheses venture into the depths

but they are mere renditions

let them come forth and breathe into them

the breath of exodus

the deep is but a foil and its eminence

but a profusion of foams and bubbles

yet you great masters lurk beneath

where time is inconsequential

where time surrenders to your whims.







fern of the heart opposes all words and its function

calyx of metaphors encircle a theatre of war

petal of the free church picked by callow hands

brings its only significance to a wreath

poetry of a glaring flame that emits no light

words that only tame a fraudulent display

mechanics of thought pioneer across the poles

to where north becomes south

landscape of impressions assemble into a featureless picture

while colours of salubrious hues inseminate nature

strokes of force initiate a whirl-wind that opens

the heart that tends the fern.







they turn from me and run run

I never know why this happens

perhaps it is the colour of my back pack

I am used to being left out of the loop loop

they share a laughter amongst themselves

is it the size of my shoes my entire attire

they point their fingers as I walk by by

head down I count my steps back home

and all I do is curse my father’s fair hair

day long I sit under the elm tree to read read

while thinking of ways to getting even

 enough of their pranks and name games.






she who has no name

the water slowly rises

fringes the lip of a dream

as life becomes unreal

tears seep out into the gates

she waits her calling

she waits her turn the

water confines to the brim

a dream solidifies

she lays at the foot of a virgin’s alter

and revives a prayer to theotokos

words in deliberation falter

her victory doves left years ago.






an oath to a lie

 the seeds are sown

satisfaction graces

the faces of men

who deflower the new

and deny the old.






emotional rampage

bitter symphonies disguise

the voice of a vagabond

in the end clouds decay

as thoughts liquefy

embers electrify

the skies of a wintry morning

the residue of a memory

puts me in my place

spineless without the

compass of my sanity my

definition remains unclear as

he alternates between the hours

clouds fail to dispel

from our room

exoneration is sacrificed

 in this ritual of awakening.






a score

 my unforgettable

her refusal

his anecdotal







self console

the wind blows through

my book and life unravels

I leave it in the lilac fields and

these pages fill with stimulation

without discipline the mind

desires the liberty to roam

as senses resort to higher ground

in search of greener pastures

as life unravels in the wind

my pages come alive

and my tongue feels

the birth of a new song.






it should be raining

I turn my back

against existentialism


as he enters the room

to where I sit

every morning











the composure of youth

reclines in the wake of

an insistence to love

the mast is strained

cracks form and

another ship-wreck looms.






the art of falling

passed out

head first

stomach in view

needs another kick

 in the right direction.






swan song

fields of laurels cascade into the sky

polished skin of morning dew

glistens from head to sunken petals

the world is too modest

for my cultivation.








loose at the tongue

fingers tap

on an empty table

I tell myself

to think a little less

of his departure

but three months

is a death sentence.






last call

the morning

remakes itself

knocks irritatingly

at my door

evening follows

and I embrace my trial.







tender expressions

rest upon this berth of indifference

two souls

two minds

one line.







 rhythm trance

heads turn to the beat

eyes swallow the insanity

dark rooms to my left

young boys to my right

the scent of ecstasy

fails to capture the mind

whiffs of odour beautiful

translate my night

into a vocabulary

of unuttered senses.






variations of bliss

fresh lips touch

as memories

of past lovers breach

a hallowed moment







the vault

love begins where love ends

the vault within the heart unseals

and again we tend our love

like a shepherd to his flock.






the push

grace falters

as I discriminate

against the values I had sown

persuasion filters

into the domain of a conscience

and again I bow to my addiction.






the resonance of a farewell

to what do I owe this pleasure

fatal mistress of the gospel

my internal healing is well under way

and flowers of dawn has been laid to rest

under your name and supervision

beds of sapphire desires

once an earthly sanctuary

softens even the most astounding critics

who once tortured vows

so quickly raise their brows

and their glasses

to our reunion.






forgive and let live

vengeance is but a thought

revenge but a blunt blade

death by the sword

renders life without meaning.







reason catapults

nothingness abound

clarity sliced into morsels

suspicion renders false

and edible.






eleven to three

at the back seat

the panorama widens

the world is ploughed through

like a mast in the fog

sympathy stirs

at the onset of a new beginning

the whole-hearted games

we play have no ending.






the tenth

the cut was surgical

the humming continues

eyes gaze downward

to a civilian no longer

who would have known

the consequences

of a birth could

salvage a husband’s loss.