Listening to Beatles Albums

We all do it, 
all of us with at least

five white hairs, 
three personalities,

one life to splurge 
on little pleasures,

on antiquities, 
dust-covered bars

enclosing greener fields
where content lovers

lay parallel in the shade
without a single sigh,

discussing what will be
when the sun goes down.

Wild Kingdom

I saw giraffes in my garden
this morning and,  perhaps, 
last Sunday, I'm fairly sure
about the stride they held
prancing in the dry grass, 
their necks swayed as they 
crossed each others' paths, 
tangling gently whenever
they kissed.

A Post-It Poem

When I travel, I find that the poetry half of my brain tends to spark more often than when I don't get beyond my own 4 walls. And while on the road, I often end up writing on anything and everything (despite having a journal and more gizmos than you can shake a stick at!).

It's is an example of one such poem :-)

Wednesdays

If it were two days earlier

it's safe to assume my wet

steps could be seen dragging

down the street, wrapping it

firmly to a cold, uncaring Earth.

Two days later would be something else,

entire stones going unstamped,

nameless faces in the crowd as I

sprint by rustling trees, commuters

and my own shadow, by then a mere footnote

from a book I would read on days like today,

in-between days in between places,

a day whose backwards steps can be traced

through the centuries, perhaps a taciturn penance

Gregorians thought little of from their damp, grey cells

Note: While Wednesday is commonly considered the third day of the week in the Gregorian calendar and subsequently in ISO standards, this is actually one day earlier than what it had been in older systems - such as the Mesopotamian calendar - which the Gregorian calendar came to replace in many parts of the world.

Summer Storm

My garden weeps in the night
when it thinks no one's looking 


down their nose at it,  walking
all over it as they often do.

It doesn't know I lay awake 
listening to laboured breaths


rattle my single paned window, 
switching the lights on and off.

But the sun always leaves it exposed,
face down by the veranda door


its face still wet, hair dishevelled, 
just trying to act natural.

Passing Through Woods in Domodedovo

The Russian birch grows

white and high, one wonders how

it doesn't tumble

La Vieille

She can talk to squirrels
with the same sense
of ease she addresses
everyone she encounters
in the grocery store
each and every morning,

the young mother she lectured
about how easy she had it,
the stock boy who scoured
shelves tirelessly for everlasting peas
or the gentleman half her age
who simply smiled while she insisted
they had once danced in 1958.

From a worn park bench the dialogue
continues to roll off her tongue,
occasionally curtained by her lips,
thin, quivering but mostly longing
for the time they garnered attention
and would only speak when spoken to.