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Daredevil

There are days that I believe
(and nights that I deny)
love is not mutilation.

Daredevil, dry your eyes.

There are tightropes leaps bereave—
taut wires strumming high
brief songs, infatuations.

Daredevil, dry your eyes.

There were cannon shots’ soirees,
hearts barricaded, wise . . .
and then . . . annihilation.

Daredevil, dry your eyes.

There were nights our hearts conceived
dawns’ indiscriminate sighs.
To dream was our consolation.

Daredevil, dry your eyes.

Blissfully (Acrostic Form)

B-eauty is everywhere within reach
L-ook very carefully and you'll find it 
I-nside in tandem  with wider world
S-ee subtle shifts and changes now
S-uch actions stir wondrous alerts
F-ind in each setting a first light glow
U-rban, townscape, city panorama
L-earn to do the same in rustic idyll
L-avish praise on earthly benign fete
Y-earn for never ending dream boost

Expression of an Impressionist

"Extra! Extra! Read all about it!"

The alarming trend of renegade
souper spoons ladling out propaganda
cast a chilling, galvanizing, and spooking trend
many spoons transitioning to sporks
and running off with knaves of knives.

Why, where, and when all spoons
got uppity and disappeared
mystifies kitchen motley crews
across the webbed wide world
as to why these implements
consisting of a small,
shallow oval or round bowl
on a long handle,
used for eating, stirring, and serving food
vanished right before the eyes of Laura Mars

Sister

Sister

Sister dear, is that you?
Perfect and poised.
Sharp and sensible.
The doctor. The engineer. The lawyer.
Can you see me? Your shadow?
When you stand, I stand. When you sit, I sit.
When you cry, I cry.
I am your counterfeit; your Lucifer.
You are all they see.
The shadow is always overlooked,
But when noticed, they point and mock.
Behold its bizarre form. Witness how it trails behind,
How it falters in its imitation.
I am the dimmed counterpart,
Crafted by the sun of your ethereal glow.

What we carry

We carry the faces of people who left mid-sentence. The words we should have said, rotting at the edges. We carry the nights we pretended to be fine, and the mornings we couldn’t get out of bed. Some things stay lodged in the body— a hand that was too rough, a silence that was too long. We carry the weight of survival like a medal and a curse. And sometimes, we carry nothing at all— but still feel bent, as if the air itself is heavy. Not everything can be put down. Some things, we just learn to walk with.

Found Heartily Exuded

Is my notepad a blank space,
canvass or image-ridden spot,
thoughts of aqua bead elation,
mesmerise beyond the fence,
they jump gaudy traffic lights,
but runaway relish cuts wild shape,
when fantasy and environment,
a seamless transit might appear,
notions spiral in frothy oceans,
as time a spring time winger,
unfolds, unveils, unfurls,
its unique ruby nugget chain,
a doorway widens wondrous wares,
I am wide awake to treasures,
set on blaze by rapid prompt,
pencils, crayons, brushes lie down,
to  attention writer’s tools,

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