Friday, June 8, 2018


In the stillness of
the moment
Birds fly seamlessly,
staining the air.
My pen's the arrow
Cleaving through
Their motion.
Ghostly apparitions
until ink fills them,
Graceful victims,
Committed to the
Prison of paper and thought.

Thursday, April 12, 2018

The Walking Tree

Wispy branches piercing
the skies,
Elevated in wonder
and prayer
A still dance
frozen in earthy grace
Descended in the gritty mineral
A revolving eternity
Sifting through sameness
A summoning of
bark and root,
leaf and fruit.

Sunday, March 11, 2018

That IT

       No, it isn't Stephen King's "IT" that I'm dwelling on, although I must confess the thought is tempting. It's a less gruesome one, but nevertheless daunting. It stretches under your eyes larger than the horizon and deeper than the murkiest of seas. Perhaps its apparent enormity pushes us into active oblivion, ushered in by the grind of daily living. No trifling matter, that fundamental search rooted in the core of our humanity. It's the chase for meaning, fulfillment and happiness. On a personal note, I've grown to realize they all converge in the unearthing of calling. As presumptuous as it might sound, I see it as the keeper of fulfillment. We are makers, creators, forgers. Not workers. Creation lies at the heart of our being, unlike work which implies a descent into depersonalized effort. A poor substitute to the spark of emergent novelty. 

Credit: Butterfly
     Creation rejuvenates identity; it shines a light on those tricky spots where a seedling pushes through. It's in the glimmers of childlike joy that comes along in your doings, a sense balance restoring you to yourself. Work is oftentimes alienating. Like a Victorian Frankenstein perpetually resurrected with the sole purpose of engulfing people, cities and countries under its thick mantle of gloom. When that flicker of enjoyment beams through again, the monster is kept at bay and moment count again. Days cease flowing mindlessly, like mere snowflakes staining the ground in a tiresome cyclicity of seasons. Eden is restored, if only for a moment. Perhaps the quest for that "IT" is a matter of the time to come; perhaps the breaking of the mold shall occur on its own under the respectable patronage of fate. 

Perhaps waiting is, in fact, a bad bargain with time. No, don't wait for that extraordinary event that will bring along the much expected earth-shattering change. Instead, sharpen your senses every day. It might not reveal itself at once. Like an elusive butterfly, it shies away from noise and bustle, looking for a space and time where it can spread its delicate wings. For once, allow silence to wash over you. Put your phone away. Breathe in the moment and go for a walk. Let nature float around you as it is and listen. The cheerful chirp of a bird, a sunray spilling through the almost still branches. And the comforting smell of dry warmth of a spring day. They all restore you to yourself. Perhaps this here and now will help the butterfly inside to emerge in ginger flight.

Friday, December 1, 2017


Sometimes they clamber buildings
Or they trail behind in yearnings,
Other times they linger on buses
Carried away in silent clauses.

You see them leaving forgotten
Dissolved by time,
And others begotten
Hoping to return
In a memory game
Hopeless, but relentless,
A gathering of the being
As once wished upon a moonbeam
The numberless stars always a beacon
Of their essence, lost garden of Eden.

Monday, November 6, 2017


I've wandered through the archaeology
Of our past etchings
To hear the humming
Of the old
I've patched a moonbeam
Settled in the cradle of my palm
As the moon stabbed the sky
Feeble vestige of our light
Melted in the mist
Of a singular gaze

Wednesday, October 11, 2017


They fall lighter than air
Nimble and radiant
Graceful and fragrant
Swaddled in light
Covered in might.
They swirl silkily
A wingless flutter
A voiceless mutter

Wednesday, September 27, 2017


Sauntering notes,
Undulating gracefully
Speaking unbeknownst to them
Height to height,
In a circle,
In a hurry
With a sensible might.
Tangible carving
Of a heart print
Etched in blacks and whites