August morning

is cooler, than last week's steady

torching of the garden & parks

on the kitchen table are summer's produce:

juicy peaches, ripe mangoes, melons, berries

from the nearby grocery store, including

pots of rosemary, basil and lemon grass  

the gifts from summer also include

home grown flowers from marigolds

to zinnias, whose seeds i will carefully

zipped up for next spring's planting

i love watering the back garden,

mesmerized by the sprinkling waterdrops

and even now that its a bit cooler,

i love the green lushness of the fields

savoring each rain downpour   

as maple leaves are slowly turning brown

what we planned at the start of year

has given us a clear direction:

this home is more precious than ever-

our spring's sale showing did not materialize

which turns out to be blessing after all

as i slowly hang up paintings, unpack kitchen gadgets 

from the garage, arrange a vase, curtains

cushions, bed coverings, books that

give our space a unique look

not the ubiquitous bland "perfect for sale home"

i breathe it all until plant questions intrude:

when to bring back all the tropical 

plants indoors?

and where to fit them all in our living room?

Posted for the dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics - Where do we go from here? Hosted by Melissa Lemay.  Thanks for your comments and visits.

untitled [summer]

 

summer

my balcony of zinnias-

blooming pink, red and tangerine 

an empty nest

amidst the birdsongs, i scatter the sun

flower seeds

Summer 2025

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - MTB, A Revisit with The Cherita, hosted by Merril Smith.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

Riverwood

tall red maple leaves are inviting

we walk inhaling the cool light

moss, wood ferns, wildflowers edging 

our pathway of pebbles & grass 

we pass the storm-struck fallen tree

scattering bark, a haven shed

for chipmunks, squirrels, buzzing bees

and birds with wings of black & red

terrain is rugged yet wood-soft

at the credit river, we marvel-

wood duck, mallard, and blue heron

catching fish & blueing sky joyful

Riverwood, Mississauga City, Ontario

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Let's Take a Walk in the Woods - Thank you for your visits and comments.

imposter syndrome

i am going bananas

over my empty bag

i take out my fishing rod & reel

and cast the line over the lake 

it is summer & sun

has blued & sparkled the shore

stones, sands, pebbles, low tide

i take it

crackles, bouts of silence, birdsongs, sweat

running down my back

a tremor pulses

and i reel in the line to look at my catch

is it lost door key? 

is it freshwater salmon?

or maybe a lost train ticket?

nope

it is the shape of 

a woman's torso

robust, unpretentious, glorious

the randomness is serendipity

the nothingness is everything

and this sits right with me:  

lens of the uncertainty of the poet

                       The Uncertainty of the Poet

                                                   Giorgio de Chirico

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight.  Please join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.   Thank you for your comments and visits.

the color of my days

i.  monday

white is the color

of regret, an un-

painted bowl left on table

ii. tuesday

i am color-

less sheet of blue static-

-unsent messages

-unfinished thoughts 

iii. wednesday

i can eat the sun-

flowers all day, but my

tongue is dragon fruit -

coloring the rain water pink 

iv. thursday

it must be the sand

or the sandpipers

how else can my mornings

be joy-struck, bicolored musings of sky 

vi.friday

i walk these city streets 

and see different shades of color 

from skin to hair to eyes-

i do not pretend to be colorblind

your story is different from mine

but it is the same ocean tides that 

powers your lungs & mine to go out

there & protest & march- 

vii.satuday

i read the 

books & albums

as if they sugar candies-

it was sticky with colorful memories

of the past

though its all in black and white

viii.sunday

and what of black?

it is erasure

it is sacrifice

not a color lacking 

a seed 

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - MTB Synesthesia.  Thanks for your comments and visits.

steps to my arrival (here)

 

Cut the twining cord quickly

with a sharp scissors

Use the cord clamp to stem 

the bleeding

It will not hurt (for now)

The scars will fold under my navel

As will my native tongue

sink to the bottom of my belly of fears

Learn the language of 

weather politeness of 4 seasons

Handle the etiquette

of fork & knife with ease

Still the waving hands as intuition

& glaze the summer skin to winter ice

Walk the balancing act

between following & not following

between listening & not listening

To myself & this pathway that I have

chosen, from brave idea to blistering reality

of starting over in a new country

a 360 degree turn

from one journey to another

Jump as if there is no bridge

to return to, 

Even if each detour, is a dead-

weight of self-blame 

Even if every mistake is a sword to

the carefully constructed excel timeline-

In the rearview,  

Plow along as elegant swans, with no outside 

signs of breaking point

What kept me sane, gentle as raindrops?  

 

Writing poems

A balm & thread to my turmoil

Strewn away as spinning dandelion fluffs

on a windy summer day, scattering

verses lead to stanzas, rhymed 

& unrhymed, each poem 

a journey to

Forgive & find myself

after patching & stitching faded lilac

blooms & falling autumn leaves to my sleeves-

I am (wholly) grateful

For marking 20 years in this land, we now call home

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub: Poetics:  Building from the Broken hosted by Mish.  Celebrating this day as our first day in Ontario, Canada with my family.  What a journey it has been! 

coward

you lied

when you brazenly told the new group

that you are wild & adventurous

one person took your word

& tested your boundaries-

he knocked at your hotel

door at midnight

you are new <here>

strangely, this city is brimming of cloves,

nutmeg & spicy hot peppers-

you are writing a new page

in this exciting theatre stop

your head is swimming with beer & crackers

enamored with the lure & lore, you

are making a a bold move

(in your head with clouds)

you plump up your plumeria-

misted pillows

& settle down deep in your bed, ignoring

the knocking at your door-

the phone ringing with urgency-

you recall that you are just a visitor here

& must go back to your home 

base later in the day-

your luggage & plane tickets are ready-

there are some doors that you 

need not open-

there are some bridge planks 

that you guesstimate is too short for you 

to land firmly on shores-  

you just prefer everyday life 

to be boring 

as a dissected frog-

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetics:  A View of One's Own, hosted by Dora.  Thank you for your comments and visit.

becoming

you wanted lines to be perfect

yarning silk to flawless hues

yet your face is moody spring, unkempt 

yearning for moon's kiss & blues

observe the shedding of olive skin 

obtuse as words you scrawled on walls              

offer sage leaves & feathers, & spin

oats & seeds, the wild voice calls

begin each day with tender hands

bathing in light, forgiving yourself 

bedazzle with larks, jiggle run on sands 

becoming is chaos, off-the-shelf

enter at-your-own risk show, you scrap

endurance with pride, & you also fall 

endless times, until you fly without a map

edging lakes, you cup palms & call-

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetry form is Trolaan.  Thanks for your comments and visits.

this room is under study

the room is triptych

a distortion of the manifesto:

space, silos, substance

there is no roof

nor ceiling, only sky & clouds

are our constants

whatever lies beyond

the dark blue skyline is anyone's

guess

spin your story & see 

where this takes you-

imagine:  there is no wall

or cabinets to display photos

or keepsakes, yet

every absence holds shape 

of what can be 

every unopened door stirs & tears

of what may be 

you are told

this room has two doors-

but what you see is not just two doors 

the openings are everywhere

also the ground is unlevelled, moving

under your feet, folding & unfolding-

you roll over

get egg wash all over your face

& unroll again & again

this ground is not a vanishing point-

the room is under study

for you see so many possibilities

and in this moment, you are 

both light & darkness

both ending & beginning

Kay Sage, entitled, My Room Has Two Doors (1939)

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight.   The image is for the optional prompt but I also used some words from our Tuesday's Poetics, In Our Words, hosted by Melissa Lemay.

Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.      Thanks for your visits and comments.

spring

mother arrives with a knife

cutting down the dead tree with swift blows-

pulling back dull curtains, bagging old

autumn leaves & winter bones with twisted bow    

this is a season of hardiness as stubborn

bull, plunging into the open air with grit & breath

of a seasoned traveler, braving the rain & roller- 

coaster wind, driving head first to sow seeds & spores

spring season arrives with false starts

much like a failing review of a premiere movie night-  

or a disappointing first-look of famous landmark-

it is a short season as the cherry blossoms trees-

yet in every spring season, you marvel its art-

thick thistles of flowerets- 

gnarly green fingers rising from mud-

red-veined leaves, delicate as old woman's hands-

  

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetics:   Getting Hooked on Opening Lines, hosted by Kim Russell.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thank you.

Ten Ways of Looking at the Crossroad

I.  

The sky is a glass

Of mourning blackbirds

I stand rooted, a weeping willow 

At the crossroad    

II. 

A sign 

Falls flat on grass

Knocked down by errant wind-

This ceased to be a cross-

                                           road    

III.

Two sisters stood at the crossroad 

One chose the sun, west of the forest   

The other chose the moon, east of the river

When they met again after a year,

Their faces were maps

Their hands were cups

Hued of their journeys 

IV. 

At midnight

Your reckless heart rips away

The bandages

And follow the unmarked road 

V.  

From the distance

A crossroad

Strikes a shiver of excitement

Like choosing an ice cream flavor & toppings- 

VI.  

He walks with me 

And the crossroad turns into 

A boat ride in the canal

VII.  

At the crossroad

I felt every pebble, gravel & slab

beneath my feet

VIII.  

Death arrived

At this crossroad

Early Sunday morning

IX.    

When she gave an ultimatum - 

The crossroad  

Became a street marked with dynamites 

X.     

Your face is

A book

Stamped with crossroads

I have yet to figure out

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics - Fated, hosted by Merril Smith.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

house [for sale]

 

i grew a body 

over the decades & seasons:

sturdy legs, giraffe high ceilings & brown

weathered arms during long winter nights

i found my stubborn voice 

from the brick chimney, incessant howling

of a child on a strong 

stormy day, black hair whiplashed by wind

i discovered my elephant's ears- 

doors opening and footsteps are news -

jostling voices by dinner table and kitchen 

are stories, as are goodbyes from the stoop and stairs

you talk to me as if i am more than bricks and stones

and painted white walls.  you see,  i stitched a tail 

to swim with blue whale at the basement and green-

thumbed my fingers to forest neon pothos 

and chatter with ferns & crotons & ivy -

-no we do not linger on chaos & turmoil of news-

we fill our heads with birdsongs & spring's arrival of lilacs-

& yes, i am scrubbed clean, ready for Sunday's open house- 

the woman holding the box of for-sale placards wrestles

with her decision - keep my keys or give it to someone else -

i like to believe i am priceless burrow of maps

and irreplaceable nest of "memories"

but reality hits as sudden hail storm on a sunny day-

regardless of the price tag listed in the property deed 

 - to safe keep my keys -

my face grew a character, familiar as musk of pines-

because all this time, you see, we grew in/

out of each other   

watching the dying sunlight by maple tree 

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - MTB:  Magical Realism.   Join us when the virtual pub doors open at 3pm EST.   Please see our exciting 2026 Anthology Project to celebrate the 15th anniversary of dVerse Poets Pub here.  

punching time

 

Day in and day out, we punch time

Our fists blued, our eyes grimed

By smoke, we beat ourselves brain dead

Where does this end, this life we dread

We step off trains & skip sky dreams

Grinding hours for someone's creme

Sinking deeper to debts & weeds

Where does this end, this life we dread

We mute our voices to nil

Lacking timbre & jars to fill

Carrying hurts, chests rippled red

Where does this end, this life we dread

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Complaint, A Poem of Lament.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

beneath the earth

i want to be stamped

in spaces between verses

in crannies between bookshelves

my voice, a lone songbird

rising from the rain-soaked dandelions

to summer of marigolds & blue asters 

i want to be settled as

sand & sumac moving in rhythm with wind-

black cradled rocks digging deep in bush-

recite my incantation of wishes

for the yellowing of autumn leaves to

be buried in winter field of ice & white sky-

cover me in earth's seasons

rejoicing

i am from this land

and to earth, i will return-

seeds, pods, flowers, trees along the blue

mouth of Lake Ontario

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Tuesday's Poetics-The Four Elements, hosted by Kim Russell.   Thank you for your visits and comments.

 

Widow's Last Winter

 

Death - come & cover me - burs & soft twine   

Turning feet to plum,  bones to earth - bury

My face under orchid's sun, wild cherry 

My body is bent tree, crowing to wind

Pining to fly & ride the last ferry   

Death - come & cover me - burs & soft twine  

Turning feet to plum,  bones to earth - bury

This weighted sadness, blue trimmed with iced-rime

Spinning legs more than I care to carry  

Recalling a love, sweet as mulberry

Death - come & cover me - burs & soft twine   

Turning feet to plum,  bones to earth - bury

My face under orchid's sun, wild cherry 

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetry Form is English Madrigal. Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST. Thank you for your comments and visits.

threading the threads

my mind is a puddle of fluff & fuss

my hands are busy clocks & cords

you tell me, it is not complicated-

it is either this way or that way

this way is to walk with the cat

or that way is go inside the room and wear 

tall crown I made, a Queen's golden crown

or a joker's cone cap

and if I choose a joker's cone cap,

is it going to make me laugh to oblivion

because I know my indecision of things

can really get in the way - see the empty 

table?   you tell me - easy,

walk with the cat, as if it is 

really a quiet walk on the path, out  

out of this churning madness of choices

in my head, a nest of noisy birds

waiting for mother's treat & ultimate goal-

freedom

[walking out & away with the cat]

in my dreamscape, I am a white horse 

bolting out of the frame, towards the moon

but my feet are rooted in threads, deep in silos-

where and when (things past)

Gertrude Abercrombie:  Where or When (Things Past), 1948, Collection of the Madison Museum of Contemporary Art

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

if not for winter, i would not know spring

if not for blue salt

i would not know blackness of ice

that wipes all shiny memories to paper blankness

if not for the polar vortex

i would not know the limits of my sadness-

in all ways, your absence is sharper knife that i can not hold

if not for the stillness

i would not know how powerful your

death wish is, between goodbye & falling asleep

if not for the last breath

i would not know mercy, kissing your brow

wishing nothing more than whole white sky to cover your eyes 

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Meeting the Bar Positively through Negation - Hosted by Bjorn Rudberg.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

January's blues

 

snowdrift hides dead flower shrubs and feathers

my hands are ice-numbed, knitted white, blued feathers

pine and fir trees weave their green lushness

lifting my spirits from gloom donning black feathers

sundial casts a long graceful shadow   

while crescent moon rises with single feather

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille, hosted by De Jackson.   This is a 44 word count, with the given word, LIFT.   Thank you for your comments and visits.

On butterfly wings

you open my eyes to beauty of wings

the sky is a wonder of light and wings

draw over my sadness with whiteness of snow,

my fears with fluttering of bold black wings

how the rain pours over wild forest-

spring will arrive, blazing, bagful of wings

paint the long summer days with bright orange 

& yellow, symmetrical, silky wings

when autumn arrives, give me grace to fall

chest thrumming to wind's spell, breaking my wings

Silky Owlet / Photographed in Papua New Guinea / Michael Sammut

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Art in Nature, Hosted by Melissa Lemay.  Thank you for your visits and comments.