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Silence of the Scroll

The scroll is already written
in blankness.
Every crease is a syllable withheld.

Do not search for ink—
the silence itself
is the script.

What you unroll
is not revelation
but the weight of what resists speech.

The scroll keeps its covenant
with the unsaid,
binding absence into form.

To read it
is to listen
to pauses between words.

.

I Was Homeless Once

I was homeless once—
not metaphor, but pavement,
the night’s breath stiff with diesel,
a borrowed coat that never quite closed.
The city’s lights were not for me,
they glittered for windows I could not enter,
for tables where bread was broken
without my name.

I learned the grammar of benches,
the syntax of doorways,
the long pause of hunger
that makes even silence ache.
And still, the body endures—
it finds a corner,
it waits for dawn,
it bargains with cold.

But there is another exile—
homeless in a palace without you.
Marble floors echo louder than alleys,
chandeliers mock with their excess of light.
Every room is furnished,
yet emptier than a street at 3 a.m.
The bed is wide,
but no voice answers the turning.

This homelessness of heart
is less spoken of,
yet more corrosive:
to be roofed, clothed, fed—
and still unsheltered.

I was homeless once,
and I survived.
But I would not wish
the palace-emptiness on anyone.
Better the cold stone
than the warm room
where no one waits.

.

between the measure and its lingering chord  

a pause leans into itself—  

not absence, but a held breath  

threading the room with quiet weight.  

chairs remember their occupants,  

dust rehearses its slow descent,  

and the air waits,  

as if something might begin again.  

… and the night forgets its name  

the silence gathers in the rafters,  

an aftersound still trembling in the beams

Would they laugh at the irony,

two legends sharing a stool, 
Trading tales of prophets, tyrants,

and the stubbornness of fools. 

Would they toast to free will,

that double-edged gift, 
Or argue who shoulders the blame

when the world starts to drift. 

Perhaps they'd find comfort

in the roles they both keep, 
Two sides of a coin, twirling

and spinning, endlessly deep.

.

The Cost of Pretense

You polish the mask
until it blinds you.

The mirror smiles back,
but no one else does.

Honest hands
slip away from your grasp,
tired of holding
what isn’t there.

The joke you rehearsed
falls flat in the silence.   

And when the lights go out,
you pay the price alone—

a face unrecognizable,
a name no longer yours.

.

We begin with simple words, 
not heavy with symbols or riddles, 
just a steady rhythm of voices 
gathering in one place. 

The page is wide enough for all of us, 
its quiet waiting to be filled. 
Each line is a step forward, 
each pause a chance to listen. 

We write to share, 
to make something together 
that feels like a hand extended, 
a small light carried into the evening.

.

to the Poet, on their inviting words

Your words unfold like a quiet lantern,
casting light without demanding notice.
They remind us that essence is never lost,
                                   only translated,
like a fragrance carried on different winds.

There is comfort in knowing
that what stirs the heart in one tongue
will find its echo in another.
The rose does not ask to be named,
yet it is recognized everywhere.

Keep writing in this way —
where simplicity hides depth,
and every line feels like a door
that opens into silence,
inviting us to step through.

.

The Good Poem Gone Bad / The Bad Poem Gone Good

The “good” poem builds its cathedral,
 arches of meter, stained‑glass rhyme.
But the tourists are bored,
 they’ve seen this nave before.
The bell tolls on time,
 and that is the problem.

   (cue jump cut)

The “bad” poem stumbles in, drunk
 syntax crooked, enjambment bleeding,
 clichés dragged like tin cans behind a wedding car.
It laughs at its own metaphors,
 spills ink across the page like wine.
And suddenly—
 the room leans in.

   (Dutch angle: the stanza tilts)

Good form is polished marble,
 but marble cracks,
 and the cracks are where the moss grows.
Bad form is scaffolding,
 but scaffolding is where the workers sing.

   (breaking the fourth wall)

You, reader,
 yes, you —
 are waiting for the “proper” line break.
So, here it is.
But wasn’t the stumble more alive?

   (overexposure)

Too many images,
     too many suns,
           too many mirrors reflecting mirrors reflecting mirrors—
   until the page is bleached white.
                                      And in that glare,
                            the “bad” poem breathes.

.

Unfinished Interlude

The world dims—
light falters, seas fall silent,
love cools to ash,
and memory frays into dust.

Yet in the hiatus,
a sudden blush of petals—
sakura, trembling in the air,
a brief rebellion of beauty
against the certainty of decay.

For a heartbeat,
the streets are rivers of pink snow,
  strangers pause,
    eyes lifted,
as if eternity had cracked open.

But the blossoms scatter,
sweep into gutters,
trampled under shoes.

The trains still run,
the markets open,
emails pile up,
and the world resumes
its business-as-usual.

The bloom was only a pause,
a reminder that even endings
carry their own fragile grace—

a petal clings to the sidewalk,

                              refusing to fall,
        another drifts, then another,
   each delay a small defiance,
each fall unfolding.

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