Poetry

In every harbor, salt clings to skin, and mothers’ songs drift into dawn, soft as mango fuzz, warm as a sun-stroked shoulder. Markets breathe with spice and voices, stretching like rope bridges over rivers carved from memory. We gather fragments— grief tasting of smoke and ash, joy dripping like sugarcane juice, hope folded...

Flowers grew in the cracks of the gardener’s calloused hands as she glanced at the garden she cultivates She never wanted to disrupt their growth, yet they need the cutting. The plants got hurt, yet they bowed at the gentleness of her pruning. Her finger bleeds, yet she will always be...

The projector hums. In the theater’s dusk, a flicker unspools a world. The scent of rice wine and stale popcorn grounds him, a shadow of a boy who sinks into the creaking vinyl seat. He came to this darkness seeking a map to a life he...

Van Gogh’s sunflowers  — all twelve of them  — so lively, lush, standing, bending; they do not submit to ikebana’s poise and posture — golden — no — bronze — beautiful yet strange. I am certain this is the color of grief thick as impasto, of desire leaping like a gazelle, beyond the canvas’s frame — wedged in...

There is no warning— the sky, a sudden insurgent, opens with                     guerrilla downpour. Torrential rain, an unrelenting witness, assaults the fragile spines of trees and the quiet bones of houses. Water spills, not as mercy, but as a force that shatters the brittle calm we cling to. In the heart's small orchard, the fruit...

"There must be something strangely sacred about salt.It is in our tears and in the sea."from SAND AND FOAM (1926) by Khalil Gibran Matthew 5:13— "You are the salt of the earth. But ifthe salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made saltyagain?...