Like Candy


He pours his voice like taffy.

Creamy folds undulate, smooth to silk in her

hungry ears. But when he pulls his words, stretches

the truth out of shape she, generously buttered, finds there is

nothing she can hold on to. Communication – hardened

and brittle –

shatters in the stillness; she is left with only her bitter

memories of how easily those empty calories

used to go down.

Between the Lines

eyeliner macro

It’s true. Lines are

more prominent than

they used to be. But if

you will read between


them, you will enter

my world – dreams

and ever afters, knights

and clashes with wicked


tyrants, notes stashed

in bottles and tossed on

foreign shores. Between

these lines lies a


spirit-essence, a will,

a mind, a heart. Turn

the pages breathlessly

when suspense leaves


you hanging; linger long

where hope casts her

spell. Decode the jots,

decipher the plot


sketched out by

an author yet

unknown. Read me,

between the lines.


Hearts of Stone


Hearts of stone cannot bleed;

aortas and ventricles

clog and contort,

but will not spill their precious cargo.

 Hearts of stone

may be islands,

coastlines of security for the soul interred –

but do not good bedfellows make.

Hearts of stone

do not conform to spooned softness

or adapt to reaching arms;

they will not break for others

or drive change in the leaking.

Better to bleed,


beat fast with the pain,

than to remain

a stone.

Seeing Eye to Eye

Your lip curls in derision,

contempt for failings twists you.

Your eye gleams,

‘arc de triomphe’;

 your tongue trails

your rows of hapless prisoners,

an offering to ego’s altar.

Your gleam blinds you

to your own appetites,

 slaves with sweat glistening,

goose-stepping over cells

bound by shackles of steel.

Remove the plank,

and you can see to remove my speck.

Perhaps then,


we can see

eye to eye.

Pyjama Hopes

Another evening,

another night

in pyjama hopes

waiting with bated breath

for the measured step

that will not come.

Which friend should she call this time?

Which bar?

These ‘listening waits ‘tear the years from her heart

and add them unceremoniously to her face

where angry crows stamp them into place.

How long has she lived

listening, waiting?

And still her Prince does not come.

A new thought jolts her upright –

is she waiting for the wrong thing?

Will Life creep by while she

listens for fairy dust?

Perhaps the sound of  Freedom

is no different from her heartbeat.

Perhaps bated breath

is better spent on

the Living.


One of these things is not like the others,

One of these flowers is an island of blue;

She stands alone, amidst all the silver,

She isn’t ashamed of her different hue.

She isn’t aware that her petals’ arrangement

Stubbornly shouts out her personal flair;

She isn’t trying to mimic the snow-scape,

Or trying to squelch how she grows.  Her air

Is one of contentment, of ‘I have arrived!’

She blooms where her seed has fallen by chance.

Her radiance, her difference, will draw all the eyes,

And hers is the visage that’s worth second glance.

Your Boomerang

Image courtesy of Productive Flourishing

Here I am again –

Your boomerang.

How many flights of fancy will I ride

Before I quit coming back for more?

A flick of your wrist and

I arc by rote.

Let’s consider this carrier service,

This revisitation of your whim and mantra,

Archaic madness, shall we?

In cessation of my role as

Your boomerang,

I become plain old wood –

Part of building an empire

And warming cold fingers

And brightening hearth and home.

I’m sure you’ll find another

To be

Your boomerang…