creative writing



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Photographed by Tim Walker

on spinning wheels
and the factory of smiles,
half-a-doll of infatuation
half-a-doll of love,
oh perhaps, of Bovarian dreams.

I would have absolutely despised writing on
but ordinary things contain cosmic affairs,
and now my heart,
is merely a misspelled smile.

A gentleman sitting on the stairs
kind eyes,
the wind rattling behind the palace gate
that surrounds his soldier-shoulders,
kind eyes.

I say,
do fall upon “looks”,
for you can read
eyes, brows, and tips of woolen hair falling over the forehead,
and not
the words that often betray the book.


The Void without ambition


       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

Tough by ChrisCold

                                         Dedicated to a dear friend. She probably won’t guess it.

Ghost dust
and air like circling hair,
but not warm and covering
rather open
like a dark mouth
with a sincere eye at its end.

You can actually hear the room you know
as if all the bustle of life,
or questioning
and all you want
is to close your ears like a child
and run
until you see the light
that blinds that ever so watchful eye.

One day I met a girl,
I thought she was like many other with cold veins,
pale forehead
but with a hidden fire to reign upon life,
that life
which itself is a fire,
but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

On a warm afternoon,
behind her shoulders
I saw the eye,
and she unblinking–
“I see”, she said,
“you have met our eternal state
of emptiness,
but peace”.

The sooner the better.

Image by: “ChrisCold”, Artist profile:



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Paintings Aivazovsky,  Ivan Constantinovich

Storm in the north sea, Aivazovsky (1865) 

I have never lived this life before
and the land is ever alien,
and the light keeps changing
with questions of mortality,
if not purpose.

The looking glass is my circus
and meaning is my cup,
“oh what could she possibly mean by that?”,
I mean my mode
of writing solemnly
as the sun drips my window with glass-sweat,
my house a greenhouse
and my body within, like my soul within my flesh.

For once,
I wish I wasn’t so mysterious,
I am not trying,
Do understand
the meaning that lay trapped
like a doomed boat diving under the crest.

The Gaze


       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for tree of eyes

Image, “The Trees Have Eyes” by Wim Lanclus


Close the doors
lay under the blankets,
and even under the eye lids,
O the,
O the,
eye follows.

It is not about people prying
It is about people prying about people prying.

One day I could not breathe
as I found a tree embryo
upon my navel,
an eye-tree
an I-tree;
It was nodes of thoughts that people could have on me.

Narcissus a rose
drowned in mirrors
of other minds
before it can ever love himself.

And so mirrors are bad-luck.

The Gaze remains,
it is un-human to be completely rid of it,
often more so un-lady-like
but sometimes when I sit alone
and listen to the birds,
I am just me
and no other words
for a tree of eyes to scrutinize.

Perhaps in such sweet music of nature,
we can return
like an elegy from a churchyard grey
and so we revive–
you may call it the “true self” if you will.


The Crocodile


       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for crocodile surreal

Image by Vitogoni 

Dear words,
make me
me again.

There is a river in the jungle,
in it,
men floated like water
and animals bowed their head
to drink in life
even when death muddied their beds.

I keep having horrible dreams,
of children and swimming pools
water, for death
as in womb.

Dishonesty or Way of life?
Predators drinking at the bank,
Oh, what an uncanny space.

You think you have stopped watching the news,
but have you?



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for party monster weeknd

Into the dark end of the lake
all the faces shining in red
and water lapping like the end of the knife,
some presence of music
and soft lips.

Bird sang
Bird bled

Why do men with strenuous sweet hearts
must sit upon a grave
and only sing of shape of roses
but not the soil of death.

Why do men with vivid tongues
must sing of sweet love
but only in discreet
like a crime of gender distortion.

Once a raven took a shot,
the rasp
burnt over my lungs like smoke
and I had my heart begging,
I told it
‘it is just a song’,
but it wouldn’t listen–
New Obsession.

It is make-believe.
people do not sing of love,
only on silver screens
and when they do,
sometimes they are lies
but I eat them,
there is a squalid space in my heart
for all men who can sing on love.

[Dedicated to one of my favorite singers.]



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

Samy Charnine surrealism


I woke up one morning
and my heart was a fish
out of the water,
up on a weathered road, dying.

A vapid fume of tiredness
and, guilt
of not letting my guilt stay.

I have a habit of taking love seriously,
gifting reassurance like a shawl
covering their ears
till their eyes are full of milk sleep–
I would often sing in long paragraphs
and could even take back
a mumble hum,
but what when
the seasons are upon them for a change?

Of loved ones without antidotes
and no water for a fish.




100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018


“La Pausa” by Kelly Borsheim

For many days,
I sat upon the swing of my mind
and played with word-games
till my mouth was full.

I told people
I am gentle,
You have to chew my ambition
and twirl me a little bit to–
But wait.
I am suffering an interruption.
A rather vivid eruption,
of a heart that was supposed to stay quiet
throughout the course of this poem.

There is a figure that stands in the room
and slips under my eyelids every-time I sleep
And every morning when I wake up,
I am always afraid
I am still dreaming
and then I go out and really see You,
the figure,
playing word-games
as if reminiscing the cloud that was last night.

I am afraid.

I am pleased.

Author Notes: As a surreal poet, form is my greatest play. But sometimes
my heart does not obey me and that is potent. Unifying.