Sunday, August 1, 2021





The Run-Up To The Finishing Line


 It will be a lonely run.

The run-up to the finishing line.

It will be not be fraught with

the joy of a cheering crowd,

regaling faces, hopefuls,

enthusiasts, gathering to see

a rerun of a good run.

For I have not run well.  Never.

For I have let them pass by me

as if it wasn't a track that I was on,

as if the reality of my losing was

 the only truth to contend with.


But I will finish this run.

The desolate, winding lanes

will pause to listen

to the patter of my steps,

alert and wakeful to its rhythm and

wonder if I can make it through.

I will run in the rain, more in it

for the obscurity it gives,

for the illusions it makes;

as if there are hands to wave

as if there is a pair of kind eyes

watching over.



What Do They Mean To You


How much do you

let words rule you?


You, who hang on

like a climber’s rope


on phrases, interjections,

on figures of speech,


to find cohesiveness

on what you know and


what more you wish to?

You, who wish to read


the silence in between

the words, for much is


at stake on their meanings,

like if you will be healed!


Do they help be more of you?

Promise you a cared-for sleep?



Fadingly Yours


What remains of us

other than a thinning memory?


Of grandmother there is

the four clock ritual of combing

her all white hair cascading to

reach her knee.

Blind, bent and tired - age had

robbed off her vitality,

like the summer sun dries the lake.


Nothing much remains of her memory

except for her voluminous hair,

its silky cream keeps defying

decadence and the sure nothingness.


What will remain of me for you?

What waft of feelings, essence -

which part of this throb of life

will be signed fadingly yours?




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