Rhymed poetry

the peaceable reed








the peaceable reed





the peaceable reed
(of their ilk),
like the bountiful
rice variety



so nice to look at

—those slender




like the idylls
of European creativity

in this case,
any person that talks




all conversations
that have that potential
for explosive eruption




the friction is everywhere,
a gruelling task


normal life's allusion



now, may i ask
how she
managed to endure
such horridity?



(answering the plea—)



boy, it's not love..
just affinity!




reed, reeds, stalks, etc.



calling it love (yet involving cultural variances)

skyscrapers, tall buildings, city buildings, commercial buildings, etc.








calling it love (yet involving cultural variances)





it's as if they know—

how to lift their wings
to fly



only to be able to reach
that glorious blue sky




it's when city dreamers
really, really
could dream high


yet trying to go on their
own particular ways—
not even finding relief, sigh!
would you still hold me
until the golden dawn?

tell me what year are we now, again?
we're here, olden.. but then
we still have  
fallen apart, as you joked

—that you bleed—
(unrequited love?)

that's how we
pass the blame to reality
but really, it could just be
an untranslatable word

for perfect love




mere affinity—







 skyscrapers, high rise buildings, city buildings, built environment, etc.

untitled (true music)








untitled (former working title: true music)





as if one have
all the value judgements

in this—


tribulation period,



if only wind
instruments were
invented to share
a message, —


would souls
truly speak
in the present moment?



time & its insignificance





like metanoia
—a paradigm shift—
suddenly, anxiety
changing one's drift





from kabbalah
to phonetics
linguistics, semantics
hermeneutics of the Torah


from ancient

to the renaissance

what more can
one presage?









if a believer

prays to a false God

[of an othered religion]

permitted but








wronged sainthood






senile syllogisms & oblivion








candy tears

candy tears

in the dead of the night
she whispers
again while

i knew she was
the music
that she listens


it is the unfoldment
that scares
us mortals

because of
our undistinguished


we long for
the perfect honeyed



View tula's Full Portfolio

moonless twilight (original working title: —like a moonless twilight)








—like a moonless twilight





the dead of winter
make things
not right



not all countries
dusted by snow
to their heads alight



it does speak
through our fallacies
and biases alike



our dreariness,

like a moonless twilight








View tula's Full Portfolio

An Active Volcano And Homesteads

An Active Volcano
& Homesteads

He wants to visit
a Mitsukoshi somewhere
but, instead, they
visited Harajuku in Japan

It's like a Resident Evil
film sequel during
that silver afternoon
just because every big
city needs one

But the tremendous
beauty of a volcano
and a mountain simply
cannot be denied

Its mysteries even
symbolized the island
country, her homeland

Without that sad part of
the past (Alas, now it's over!)
they could not
have walked past each other

It seems everything
happens for a reason

I say everytime this
was the case,
it happens each season

And so we question time,
biology and our biography,

and blame the universe for our

subjective and objective reality








Author's Notes/Comments: 

Reedited:  06.10.2023 noticed, while rereading and rechecking/reviewing my own experimental works, an ungrammatical and misworded verse/line:


1.  "each could not
have walk passed each other"

and changed it to:

"*they could not
have walk*ed pas*t each other"


2.  "the past (Alas, now it's over)"


"the past (Alas, now it's over*!)"


—to one's own company (original working title: the music you play)








—to one's own company
(original working title: the music you play)





are these leaves pure green tea,

to steep in a cup

designed so quaintly?



i know a type of

music, but not all things


because there

could be drill rap music

which they—call—




it's not a pretty picture
anymore for a degenerate


i think transnationalism

somehow creates a



i just hope we don't fall
victim to this wake of

to be foisted, with gradual

influence—to one's own









View tula's Full Portfolio

—silhouettes for their perch








—silhouettes for their perch





as if songbirds have
nowhere to stay for the




the malcontents, too,
in the dizzying streets



if a forlorn hope is all
there is in my palm,



I figured birds can die,
yet while still alive and warm



the heat in the skin
would subside



but the pain is something
we never could hide



and if birdhouses are
for them—with feathers



fighters, rebels, our own

brothers can't be



because I live only—
to see them left in the lurch



and all those tree branches

—silhouettes for their perch








View tula's Full Portfolio