Love Drift

All The Words Are Yours


swarm of voices in your tongue
hurled down to your throat and 
reside in your lung
you speak your reading
as soft as hurricane

All the words are yours

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Halt, My Child!


How can I warn you child?
Even I share the same blue tears
With sky and clouds that ring the earth
So do you hear the angel’s call?

Let me tell you my child
That life itself has the deepest secret
Beneath the volcanic crater
Of a calm mountain inside man’s chest

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Maybe life is supposed to be brutal
When you’re out of your mind
When you’re forgetting every little things in life
When you show your peculiar stupidity
When you throw your unconvincing reasons
When you feel that your fear is closer than your own skin
Then you try to hide your fear,
but instead you’re trapped in silence

Maybe life is supposed to be brutal
When your eyes feel like open sore
When you decipher your hate into rage
When you pledge your wounds to your soul
When you breathe without being alive
When you cry as hard as the rain
Then you try to pour out your tears,
but instead you’re drowned

Maybe life is supposed to be brutal
To soften the brutality in you
Maybe that’s how supposed to be

Poetry Prairie – 2015

Mother of Roots

pitch dark soil is burying deep
the cold young roots
spreading to the center of the earth
toward water, away from air,
away from light
cultivating power

their pointy fingers are wiggling
replacing tears with nutrients
carving the pith and sapwood vessels
so leaves can taste the water then the flowers will bloom

those stem that lives among numerous lignin
in the middle of the widened tree rings
life is spinning,
be still and silent in the heartwood’s tomb

root is like a mother,
who gave her entire life
being fragile in silence
when the stem is rising,
twigs are opening up their canopies,
leaves are curling,
thousands of times till they touch the ground
when death is the only
time for them to be united

Poetry Prairie – 2015

The Merry Vineyard

red grape vines
bleaching over sunrise
its fingerlike leaves popping
with the sound of butterfly wings
red grapes glow hastily
a beauty’s ally

we dream of curling twigs on the vines
green canopy of leaves shading the land
fresh fruit bunches spurt under rain shower
glimpsed, blinked, sparkled
overflowing lights

how sweet,
the smell of crushed grapes
inside mouth
under the feet
dancing merrily
we’ll never get old under the vines
even if we grow old anyway,
we’ll get old happily

Poetry Prairie – 2015