poetry – Wolverine Lily

The Atlantis

Living in Atlantis,
a glass island rising
from oceans of blue light.

They launch satellites,
trace their orbits—
yet remain rooted,
necks craned toward their palms.

They worship gods of algorithms,
kneel before the i-altar,
pray for notifications.

In a nursery, infants hungry for pixels,
stream milk in the mother’s shadow.
Tiny hands strap phones like rifles
aiming at blankets and stuffies.

The suited and crowned
arm for war, temper bullets,
deploy youth to bleed—
while the tide rises,
consuming Atlantis whole.

When Atë Strikes

Above a muted battlefield—
steep, perpetual push.

A mother—
Herculean,
embracing a breathing boulder—
then another—

She heaves—
teeth clenched,
scabs scraped,
sweat smeared
across her path.

Her tears—mirrors
black cats crossing—

when—

Atë strikes—

She slips—
stones rumble,
roll—
one by one—
over her.

Will she rise,
or exhale
into oblivion?

October 21st

The sky wasn’t red for love tonight.
Orange blood scraped
across a wound-less blue.

Beneath—
clouds drifted like glaciers,
burning the spine of the horizon.

A crowd caught mid-inhale;
mouths open, arms raised,
trying to hold what was slipping.

I wondered—

How many eyes turned upward,
snagged in the orange web?
How many hearts synchronized,
holding breath—
forgetting where it hurts.

I rest my hand on my daughter’s chest. Beneath my touch, her heartbeat jumps like a rabbit through wildflowers. “Can you feel love?” I ask. She giggles and presses her tiny palm over my heart. “I can’t feel yours, Mommy.” I cup her cheek and tell her to listen. She leans her ear against my sternum. I hold my breath, afraid she might not find it. The room seems to listen with her until she murmurs, “I hear it.” I ask what it’s saying. She holds still, her lips parting slightly. I whisper that every beat repeats the same words.

I love you.

She doesn’t answer for a moment. Then she nods, leans closer, and squeezes me tight. “I hear it,” she says again.
I close my eyes, memorizing the sound.

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.

Whispered Dreams

Whisper your dreams to me—
I will plant them like seeds
in my porcelain palm,
a cup too small for doubt to find.

I’ll nourish them with spring water,
bathe them in moonlight,
until they sprout through fog,
like buckwheat clawing through stones.

I will shield them from winds,
shade them from sun’s heat,
and hold them close
through winter’s teeth.

I won’t let them wilt—
until their bloom seeps the air,
and holds time
still.

So put your lips to my ear
and whisper—
your dreams.

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.

The Living Race

Life got in the way of
living—

Some trudge to survive,
others scroll through it—
numbed.

All racing time,
chasing filters of
inevitable loss.

Death waits at the finish line,
scythe in one hand,
stopwatch in the other,

whispering:

“All that way,
and not one deep breath.
Tell me—
would you have danced this race
if the crowd didn’t watch?”

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?

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.

Tag: poetry