Below are an archive of my writings which have been gradually included in several anthologies alongside fellow local writers which form 'Pegasus Poets' & 'Huma Bird Poets'
Each of these books were kindly compiled by Tessa Dummett, who has nurtured these poetry groups over the years and continues to make a warm impression into my work and to anyone she works with.
Crossing the Street
Crossing the streets of yesterday,
I saw thousands are marching against war.
I was proud to have a part in peace,
like a foreign dove, learning to feel free,
kissing the sky and holding an olive branch in my mouth
NO WAR
NO WAR
So many of us,
and so few of them
We Shall win.
Crossing the streets of today,
I see loneliness roaming the air.
Hands are like empty bowls.
The faces are timid,looking at the horses' hooves,
marching on in a superior manner.
I have to tell you the truth:
I am afraid,
and the fear is overpowering me.
I feel like dust... invisible.
Crossing the streets of tomorrow,
the cold wind is a step ahead of my mind,
knowing it's time to find
a myth of a new saviour in our hearts.
It Happens
It happens that I am a man,
one third a god
one third wasted water
one third, blinded memories
It happens that I live here,
in a forest,
full of kings,
flagrent kings,
uncanny -
half crazed -
It happens that I have five fingers on each hand,
and one knotted tongue,
tasting a bitter apple,
behind these contagious walls.
It happens that I am just another man.
The Tapping
When I got sentenced
you came again to visit -
I thought I felt tapping on my feet
my hands were tied behind me -
my throat so dry, making a sound was impossible.
The you started to sing the songs you knew I liked.
Your eyes were full of tears.
Yet I was happy you were here,
holding my numb hands
walking through metal curtains.
The seasons must change,
and I felt that my life getting shorter.
If I could just open the blinds.
The tapping has stopped.
Red Soil
In here there are so many holes.
Inside these black holes
lives the other half with no echoes,
and if there are,
they are only in the supplicant
lips of the dying.
Here we don't reincarnate as butterflies
but we come back with the same bones
buried deep in the heart of the red soil.
Look at our empty sky
as we are left equally hungry.
Someone must be like you,
to give you bread.
If not... fight for your share.
The Compass
The pilgrims shivered,
"What shall we do without a compass?"
But for the caravan of the lovers,
a compass has no meaning.
A Need in Need
The president says:
"You're all going to be rich!"
We will share the gold with everybody,
people in those little flats.
With our empty pockets
we have to stay at home
holding onto crying slippers -
The weatherman says:
"The sun will make
a golden claw on the wall"
But he looks awful,
with his map full of shuddering clouds.
How can i believe him?
He's isolated in his room too.
Watering plastic daffodils.