Poetry

A wordsmith has a license to kill With tiny words in sequence Little projectiles that traverse From parchment to the ensheathed Poetry was always about ballistics The barrels that load and fire Gunpowder and death And when you die, it is as good as an orgasm You don’t make sounds though. Just a perfect silence…

Poet

I was both a hostage child and a victim of kidnapping When dreams held me at ransom A little quiz to conquer, a lass to call my own, A poem to fill the pages of the New Yorker And growing up those dreams were like medleys That fitted one on a throne and gave her…

Am I Special ?

Would words collapse like a sink hole, too beautiful to be true And I the wordsmith, pummeling the type writer keys With a Hemingway streak, and the metal heads Clattering on paper; Would I be special if I was Hemingway? And then I think of all the Cuban cigars smoked in a lifetime And all…

The Gift

It was a gift Given on his 14th birthday It was an era when the tongue Got used to curving in and out Making the tide as white as table-salt Still he was scared to use the blade of a sword – Kaduwa in his native tongue – Petrified of being another castaway In the…