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I ve held a chickpea
Close to my chest
Feelings its breathings
I ve kissed it on the forehead
And it looked at me
With those two tiny chickpea's eyes

I ve put it in a glass
On cotton
Watching it grow
On a rocking bed
Near to the window
Watering it some of my caring light

It grows big
Yet, how lovely small chickpea
With two tiny chickpea's eyes
White nights, grey days,
Phosphorus and gin;
Graffiti-laden pavements,
Diamond rain and paraffin.

Chalk dust reveries,
Aerosols and spit;
Zero-hour freeways,
Magnetic parapets.

City high, city low,
Monoliths in drag;
Silent spaces, dwelling places,
A hoody and a bag.

Freestyle evangelists,
Salvation strikes a pose;
Train tracks, kitchen hacks,
The rapture and the snow.

'I'm laying down, eating snow/My fur is hot, my tongue is cold/On a bed of spider web/I think of how to change myself.'
- Fever Ray, Keep the Streets Empty for Me
My home, your home
Come home, our home

Come home my sweet love
Come home tonight

Come home

Our home

Come home my sweet wife
Come home tonight


You know I needed you here
And its right
You know I want you close
Holding you tight
All night

Come home
Music is poetry. Erik Satie a poet. The piano is his pen. So listen carefully and interpret this poem in your own way.
 Nov 8 Sona Lachina
Her branches hung low
to the ground
They brushed the dirt
that they sat upon
How beautiful is pain
when it grows
It has a way to hang
those gentle woes.

See that tree all alone
yet so full?

Her shadows weep
in the bristles of doom
Then the sun comes to play
in the cold bushy monsoon.
As gusty sighs sway her eyes
to greet the galloping moon.
 Nov 5 Sona Lachina
the morning after a long night of sadness
in which you finally tricked your mind at four a.m. to repress
the deepest thoughts that tangle in your hair

you wake up to find your dreamworld is only that
and your real-world is merely what it is.

the moon will shine again,
so i keep everything tucked in my pillowcase
in hopes i can return again.
is this too confusing?
 Oct 31 Sona Lachina
House feels damp
in between
seasons of life
where I try to start a fire
Sky tonight was an amethyst fan
on a ruby line
the sun an ember
rolling golden years  
down the Hills of Scranton
to the city's lights
Across the town
toward that bend in the river

a driving dusk
Driving to the Hill section at sunset to pick up milk and eggs.
a fly lands
on the rim
of my glass

sips my whiskey

then goes stumbling
and mumbling
off the edge
of the sky
 Oct 24 Sona Lachina


   i would


      to be

         the poem



         the poet
 Oct 23 Sona Lachina
 Oct 23 Sona Lachina
It is morning, the sun has yet to rise.
There is a crispness to the air
The moon is waning
and the stars are tapered
I dreamt of your face,
for a fleeting moment.
You were alive.
Were you going up the staircase or down?
I don’t know.
I do know I miss you.
Every since the light burned out before midnight,
I have wanted to see your face.
When you were here I felt strength and safety.
At times you burned hot and cold
But I always felt the ambivalence of your disposition.
There are people that you will get only so close to.
They are the ones who will be farthest away.
You are as near as the impending sunrise
and as far as the moon.
I remember you and I won’t soon forget.
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