Summer Dust

Summer‚ oh summer‚ why must you depart with such haste?

Summer dust hangs faint

in the air

beneath the roof

of this ramshackle car.

we breathe it in


because it belonged to faeries

before it belonged to

our cracked lips.

The tires roll around

circumventing lullabies

and bringing us straight to

the warm cotton darkness.

But even in my subaqueous dreams

the summer dust is there,

a thousand golden flecks


Each little part reflects the sun

that billows in the water

like mythos.

When I wake up I can see

the ever-changing world

outside the window

flashing by through diaphanous

sheets of summer dust.


Two Poems

She counts the moons as they pass

by overhead‚ illuminate the grass

on vast-reaching fields where the gold

spins monochrome the world and maid;

bread crumbs line the trail of tears

stretched to the horizon‚ a hundred years

of endless dreaming fill her heart—

wrench blood‚ tissue‚ flesh apart—

for however enticing these dreams may be‚

she’ll always be chained to the solitary tree

that stands upright with fatigue and age;

traveller‚ she can’t be helped‚ simply turn the page!


Through the blue and through the black‚

a moon whose halo does not lack

the pure ivory of a rising dawn

without the music— all‚ all gone!

And then‚ ephemeral comes the sound

that reverberates around and round

the shadowed shoreline laced with sand

beneath her feet‚ delicate and

like little knives cutting through the timeless

solitude that wraps around her‚ a dress—

naked before the long forgotten melody

of the wind chimes through the air‚ the waves‚ the sea



Asha: Stories of Hope

I have decided to invite guest bloggers to post some lovely works here every month and I take pride in introducing you to my first guest blogger, Gloria!


WHEEL by Gloria

Literary Doodles



What civilizations froze that fated day,
a thousand miles of thought away,
when the wheel turned on the doomed creature
whose life sang of the god mentality?

I watched through the window as the people ran
from their homes screaming for blood
to wash away their sorrows and flood
their minds with something greater
than righteous grief – so brief
was the chaos that when I blinked,
serenity had returned to the world.

Blood will have blood, but who was it
that remembered the butterfly eons after
the philosophers told them that
there were more pressing matters to attend
to but all they really did was pretend
that life would go on?


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Toussaint’s Overture

Toussaint L’ouverture‚ the leader of the Haitian Revolution of the 1790s‚ was betrayed by a “friend” and deported to a French jail. He died during this imprisonment‚ alone and in a foreign country.

Gone now were those passion-filled days,

When calm discourse fell victimized

To gunpowder shouts and rebellious craze

While battles raged for ideas unrealized…


Gone now were those young boys’ faces

Names and bodies forever to juggle

In his mind as they moved to greener places

Bless their brave souls– away from the struggle!


Now was the time of iron-clad bars,

Risen in front of him like a looming gate

That conceals a land of velvet-kissed stars

And pleasures, pleasures of the human state!


And he thought to himself, in the darkness of night,

Cursed is the world that lets the glorious fade,

The ones who before sang with war-seasoned might,

And now are on the edges of graves displayed.


Cogito Ergo Scribo

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like without poetry. Then I realize… it wouldn’t exactly be life‚ would it?

i. Blank ceilings beckon to minds that

too often succumb to the saccharine pleasures

of life, only to find a bittersweet aftertaste

in want of something more.

There is something in the human mind

that longs for life to be defined.


ii. Cogito, ergo sum.

I think, therefore I am

A quiet, night-kissed fur face stealing away to a hidden place

with bright eyes that sing of distant memories still

outrunning the ever frosty winter chill.

A bon vivant with a taste in voices that embody

the spirit of millions yet has roots deeper

than those of the Shepherd’s Tree.

A creaking bark tossed by the resurgent storm of

a society always demanding more of the weak

and anachronistically bleak.

A chess piece, carved from brilliant ivory, caressed

by men who hold green paper and sands

of time and entire futures in their hands.

A lover to Gnosis but a slave to Pathos

and a beating human heart from which

Art’s arteries bleeds curiosity.

A startling flicker of light that in the

asphyxiating abyss came

before the ashes devoured the flame.

A speech scrawled in haste before

the ink ran out and never

even delivered.


iii. Poet (n)

I think, therefore I write

Cogito ergo scribo


Pinches of Prose #1

The girl’s toes wiggled in the golden sand as she stared across the water towards where the sea melted into the horizon with no clear in-between. In-between was exactly how she felt, in between life and death, in between inner chaos and an equally unsettling peace. Here, on the beach, she could make herself soar back in time and visit the carefree days. Here, on the beach, she could imagine a small wooden sailboat bobbing on the ocean like a child’s toy— and inside the sailboat, a little girl and her father, who was patiently teaching her to work the ropes and make the boat move right and left, slicing the waves. Here, on the beach, she still heard her own tinkling childish laughter. Across eons‚ it seemed.

But the girl knew those days were over, long over. She was alone now, on the beach, and her father had set sail for other horizons…leaving her behind, helplessly behind. The waves kept lapping the shoreline and sending salty spray into the air like mist, and in her perplexed, troubled state, the girl interpreted their rhythmic, indifferent action as somewhat hostile. The ocean had never truly cared for her. If the ocean had cared for her‚ it surely wouldn’t have let her parents die…

As she stood there, a lone silhouette imprinted on the setting sun, her golden hair billowing around her, the girl felt as if the waves were slowly but surely washing away everything left inside of her. Even her name.