40

Time is a predator Tick-tock is how it’s spent Until the thread is visibly shorter Than the mind ever imagined A carcass awaits every dream Where vultures assemble to feed on the cynicism Of what was left behind And only the memory of youth is Left fossilizing As bone.  

Forties

When 40s roll You dig deep into your wishing well To look at what glows inside The mutiny of the body equates To the depleting chemicals and what one can think is How to rake in the dough While the mind is summer is a fruit salad The autumnal mind is a perfectly layered pudding…

Constipation (Humor Poem)

Searching for the early Parkinson’s twitch Or the Alzheimer’s gap, I gently trudge past The eponyms that could define me When my knee makes creaky noises a habit And my knuckles crunch as I type the keyboard Of an old typewriter And perhaps if I was lucky enough I would have a disease named after…

To The One That Never Was

You the apple in the grape orchard That chews a part of me Still. Like the lost wreck below many nautical miles That holds a finder’s treasure Ingots of carats that could make me exalt in joy Or surrender in a kiss And you, in the fogged and misted orchard Who holds the aspirations of…

Asylum

There are places That protect the heart, even the mind From stark realities of impoverished life. When the heart broken and the demented Choose to find a place of idleness and composure To rest and reclaim the life one used to know. And sometimes we stay years inside the places We inevitably call asylums, to…

Puberty

When your vocal codes Turn from a piccolo to a tuba And all you can do is to feel the weight Of the descending testicles And a little fertile spurt of hairs In all the right places – even wrong And you’re stuck making sense Of this anarchy of little emotions Making a cacophony, a…

Cricket Dreams

A lottery would be A little scratch pad that rustles something inside And that old man with the ticket Was like a school yard kid on a piece of turf Playing cricket. And that kid too had a lottery In his palm. A little bat that would unlock a little treasure On a bare patch…

Royalty

The past unfurls and the asphalt paths Seem like scarelet Turkish carpets I guess the peasant I see every day on the mirror Forgot my blood lines, my royalty Of a clement past, I cease to remember And the horror that I can’t seem to forget Fate is not growing wings inside a cocoon It…

Owls

The crow is a sign of the diabolical Even death. And that crow that sits On top of a dump and scavenges Little meals, is seen an omen by the common man. It seems evolutionary genetics made them A little less endearing. The lark though will score the range Of an octave in their true…