poem – Wolverine Lily

The Racehorse

They dragged him into a stable,
rope rasped against the post.
The door clattered shut.

Hay tossed into the trough,
water sloshed into a bucket.
“Fine animal,” they said.

Their hands slid on his coat
like black oil on glass.
They yoked him, snapped the reins.
He lowered his head
and pulled.

But inside him—
a track unfurled.
Shotguns cracked the sky,
the gate slammed open,
hooves hammered harrowed dirt.

Dust drilled his lungs.
Crowds roared beyond the blur.
Nothing mattered;
only the finish line.

So he plowed—
dusk to dawn,
straps slicing his shoulders,
dreams steaming in his heart
flaring against the dark.

One day, the barn swung open.
A donkey was hitched
beside the horse.

He ate the same hay,
drank the same water,
plowed the same field.

The donkey was happy.

Times Square

Footsteps. Sirens. Honks.
Engines snarl.
Anger scrapes the air.

Signs strobe.
Screens flash color,
wrestling for dominance.
The higher I look, the larger they grow.
No place for my eyes to land.

Light doesn’t illuminate the world—
it blinds.

Bodies clutter
hats and bags—
ants in human shapes.
Arms crane, phone-lenses skyward,
snapping proof of being here.

Grease hangs like a fog,
slicking my face and hair,
onion hiss, burnt meat
grilling on exhaust.

A shoulder slams into mine,
Unkind eyes—
scanning.
I clutch my pocket.
Fear seeps in—
or just the cold?

My breath trails me,
a white shadow,
my only company.

Times Square—
the crowd packed
like caviar in a barrel.

I stand within—
at the center of the world.

Rusty Adventure

Drudges and thralls
caged in clocks,
welding days into years.
Wages unlock gates
for … a holiday.

They fly across the world
to stand on borrowed ground,
marvel at the same sky,
bronze in the same sun,
convinced it’s better.

Yet back home,
the same Earth is
dimmed, diluted,
dull.

Why?

Is it receipts they admire,
or the story they post?

Conforming to filtered joy,
oblivious to their own.

Why reach for foreign rust,
when gold gleams beneath their feet?

Author’s Note:
A sunset got tangled in street cables above the lamps. Not a postcard-worthy view, but perhaps even more beautiful. What’s the point of faraway wonders before exploring your own backyard?

Her Black Mirrors

She struggled to sit,
bones shivering,
staggered—

A feeble growl
a warning, stay back.
I held her eyes—
black as shungite,
two mirrors of agony,
pleading.

I’d pray against needles,
a quiet, natural end.
I couldn’t—

She battled upright,
for one last exchange.
Her blackest pools
reflected death itself,
hurling an awl into my heart.

I knew.
It was time—
her—to go,
mine—to let her go.

Now,
no barks for a mailman,
a leash chimes on a hanger,
a tennis ball cornered in silence.

And I—
I still see her pain,
engraved in my eyelids.
Two mirrors—
death staring, haunting—
burned into me
like black ice.

Author’s Note:
It’s been years; time has moved on, yet this has never left me.

Ghost in the Valley

Atop my heart,
where its two hills bend inward,
lies the valley.

You sit astride—
a stubborn knight,
neither advancing,
nor dismounting.

Why do you remain?

I never invited you,
fearing your sword,
its blade honed on our silence.
I left the wicket ajar—
a slit to watch you—
watching me.

But three kin torches at my gate—
scorched your sight,
ignited your fear.
You fled like a coward,
left my depths unclaimed.
Your halberd scraped my hollow;
its echo—a cathedral bell,
tolling the coarse-silk wound.

Or is it me—
my longing—a magnet
latching your armor,
stabbing me?

It’s me.
I refused to let you go.
I stranded your ghost
in this valley.
Its shroud blinds me.

Author’s Note:
I usually don’t let people in. Writing breaks that habit. I composed this poem with a specific notion, then thought about this blog—like a wicket slit opening to strangers. It’s where I create, think, and process. Sometimes poems crack my gate wide. I chose to share this one—probably for that very reason. Yet lately, I find myself questioning the purpose of this space at all.

Meant to Bloom

I was meant to bloom—
unfurl, sing, and shine, not
be tended or trimmed, not
molded for duty and possession.

I was meant to bloom, not
decorate an entropic cave, not
drizzle in vain someone’s emptiness
with the sweetness of my effervescent petals—
infusing their spoiled, sour strands.

Even in the drought,
I drank rainbows through my veins.
My tendrils breathed warmth into soil,
while the sky hid behind clumped clouds.
I stretched toward muffled sunlight.

I was meant to bloom.

And then it rained, not
to nourish or cleanse.
Poured.
Unstoppable—
the ground swelled,
my petals sagged,
roots dislodged,
my garden drenched to swamp.

Yet I stand, sturdy but hollow.
They nest in my shade,
leech my youth,
and — call it love.

Slowly,
quietly,
I sink.

Still—

Dreaming of butterflies,
even a wilt can reach the sun.
Single ray ignites its desire.

Butterflies will come
And I will bloom…
as I was always meant to.

Author’s Note:
Not everyone who stands tall is thriving.
Not every flower is there for you to pick.
For every time you bloomed in silence, offered too much, or were mistaken…
This one is personal. 🌸

Insatiable

Cage me with your limbs,
Nourish the flames of our desire.
Let me hold you so close—
Feel you—
Melt to mist in our seamless embrace.

Our breaths entwine,
Drenched in the sultry steam,
Until your body nourishes mine,
Subdue my scorching thirst for you—

Insatiable—

And release my spirit,
Like the heat shimmer rising from the sand,
Ascending beyond ethereal heights.
I surrender…

And when we fall back to earth,
Together—whole and bound,
As one.
Indivisible.

Author’s Note:
This piece may look familiar, but like passion itself, poetry evolves. I removed the unrefined version a while ago because it felt unfinished, incomplete. I let it fully breathe, then reshaped it—until it became what it was always meant to be. This is the latest version, more final. Though still… insatiable. 🙂

Incongruous

“This is wrong!” they shout.
“Don’t do it!”

I don’t want to think what’s right—
what’s right anymore?

I’ve been doing all the right things:
behaved right,
got the right degree,
married the right guy…

Still, I ended up in the wrong place—
or the wrong end
of the right place,
at most.

A precise blueprint,
yet wayward—
disarrayed,
veering off the ideal design.

I’m incomplete. Misaligned.

Isn’t that right?
For me—it’s wrong.

Why is it wrong?
I did all the right things?

Why then, amidst all these rights,
do I feel misplaced—
a lucky penny lost in a dry desert,
gleaming in the sun,
yet inconspicuous in the sand—
Blindly chasing paths
marked right or wrong.

Incongruous.

Why is it wrong,
doing what feels right?

I’m tempted to do what’s wrong—
forbidden,
There’s a thrill in rebellion,
a treasure awaiting discovery in the shadows.

But what if it’s not wrong?
And perhaps even right—
right for me.

So, if I do wrong things,
maybe at least
I’ll finally feel right.

Let’s do more wrong,
but do it right!

A New Year’s Spark

New beginning calls,
Dreams awaken, hearts ignite,
Will this spark yet flare?

Author’s Note:
As the New Year unfolds, a wave of fresh inspiration has washed over me, imprinting new ideas. This is my very first attempt at writing a Haiku (though I’m not sure I like it), and it feels like a way to capture my hopes and plans for a new beginning. I wish this spark will illuminate the dark path ahead of me in 2025.

Wishing you all a Happy New Year!

Lighthouse of Childhood Dreams

Dreams, my child, are treasures deep,
Cradled in your heart where they safely sleep.
While coins and jewels swell with rust,
Your dreams are the riches that defy all dust.

On a tree of wishes, tags swing high,
Soft tears whispered to the everlasting divine sky.
Gold may glitter, diamonds may gleam,
But nobody can ever steal a sweet childhood dream!

Health is wealth, the wise declare,
Yet, dreams have wings beyond compare.
So dream your dreams, chase them far,
A priceless gift—a magical shooting star.

Your dreams are fires that never die,
A beaming lighthouse—guiding you through the night.
So dream big, dear child, the world is wide,
Open your heart, let your dreams soar with pride.