That blissful
When you lie down
next to a
loved one
on a cold
Sunday morning.



A strange
melancholy feeling
in and around me
as I look at
these two people
who have
given me
the happiest
most secure
And even now
as a grown up
the deep belief
that a safety net
always lies
beneath me.
I see how frail
they look
Their movements
just a little bit
Their daily life
just a little bit
to get through.
And I close
my eyes
shaken to the core
Not wanting
to believe
Finding it
so hard to accept
this new reality
I could turn back time
for them
and just a little bit
for me.
The feelings
spill over
the emotions
I can’t contain
come pouring out
in shiny

I dream

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Sitting in a crowded square
People all around me
I dream of open fields
And starry skies
And darkness to surround me

Walking down a bustling street
Shoppers everywhere
I dream of forest paths
And fallen leaves
And hidden, dappled glades

Lying by a clear blue pool
Swimmers everywhere
I dream of turquoise seas
And glittery shores
Where waves come crashing down

Standing in an empty room
Silence all around me
I dream of sunny days
And giggly friends 
And laughter to surround me

Going home


A few more hours
before I fly home.
And isn’t it strange
that even now
years after I’ve moved out
mom and dad’s house
is still the first place

I call home?

A lot has changed
in that house
And a lot more
has changed
within me
But what doesn’t change
are old
childhood memories.

Homework, exams,
College apps
Future plans
Love and laughter
Ever present dreams
of happily ever afters.

And as I walk
through that familiar
white door,
those old sights,
sounds, and smells
surround me.
And I yell out loud
“Mom I’m home!”


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I look back in wonder,
at all the pictures I’ve taken.
Some beautiful, some ordinary,
some quite simply mistaken.

A ridiculous number of them
should simply not exist.
But I find I simply can’t delete them,
and therein lies the twist.

Except for those times when,
in a shutter-happy frame of mind
I have taken a hundred or more shots
that show no difference of any kind.

In such cases, feeling rather sad,
put upon, oppressed, indeed quite blue.
I go through the multitude,
and then I deign to delete a few. Very few.

After all, each photo represents for me,
a moment captured, a precious memory.
Frozen in time, to look back and see,
all that I was, all that I wanted to be.

These pictures are my past,
To be laughed at, smiled over, cried for.
And sometimes, looked at in wonderrment,
the thought running through my head,
“Just WTF was I thinking?”

Pictures? Words?


They say that a picture

Is worth a thousand words

And I do sometimes wonder

Should I stop writing

And just post pictures instead?

Pictures show

Exactly what there is to see

Though, in their own way

They lead to varying flights

Of  utmost fantasy.

But words, ah words!

They  push me to think

To dream and to build

To draw something from within.

And these words form images

That are born inside and set free

Unique, unusual, belonging only to me

Mine in a way

That no picture can ever be.



I sit at my desk
Blank page in front
I need to write something
Anything at all

I type some words
I look around
Searching for inspiration
Everything seems so banal
Run of the mill

I type some more
I look at my words
And exhale
I’m tired today
My muse is hiding
Deep within

What should I do?
Where should I go?
How should I write?
And then
I look up again
My quest
My words
Sit before me
Into poetry.