A writers mind is a splash of fertile paint upon a wall.

We shake the brush and sit and watch the living colours fall.

Half an egg, a chicken thigh,
And a tower of noodles
soaring high to a pair of chopsticks
floating in the air,
The entire mix graced with a green garnish,
All if it fake and covered in varnish.

---by Brian Jobe, author of "Bird's Nest In Your Hair"

Dear sister,
The world's a little blue,
Since I haven't talked to you.
Miles keep us apart,
Yet you always keep me in your heart.

Dear sister,
Funny how years brought us closer,
Our friendship bloomed,
Even as our distance grew further.

Dear sister,
We're a world of our own,
A friend unlike any other,
You've always been my protector.

Dear sister,
You've helped me mature,
I may be older,
But you're the reason I've ever really grown.

Dear sister,
It's funny how tradition,
Expects me to protect you,
While the whole world knows,
You hold me like glue.

Dear Tanavi,
You're the hero I always knew,
You hold so many roles,
Your true identity's a secret,
To all but the hopeless few.

No matter the distance,
No matter the roads,
You'll always be more,
Than the world gives you credit for.

That yellow flower sprouts afar,
On this cold winter's day,
The inspired sight and colour bright,
Spring seems to be at bay.

She hops along, this cobbled walk,
In a pretty yellow beret.
The world her muse, she seems infused,
The Robin marking spring's way.

A country lobbed with hate and fear,
Boundaries created as love disappears,
Broken dreams and broken homes,
Where colour divides, and sentiments too.

Movies lie, as do books,
This is no land of the free,
No freedom to even hope.

You're always an outsiders,
The man with papers,
Your identity a form,
Subjected to reform.

You're looked at with suspicion,
As a timer ticks over your head,
You're pushed into submission,
There's no home for you here to be made.

But as voices echo,
It's time to reflect,
There's no time to wallow,
No time to feel regret.

Push forward as one,
With the voice of the many,
Injustice is won,
In a chorus and symphony.

She enters the cafe,
As smooth as death.
She was a presence,
Less seen more felt.

The room went quite,
But that wasn't new.
She was the bringer of silence,
The harbinger of gloom.

She scaled in the corners,
She never wore a smile,
Yet her teeth were visible,
Shining ever so bright.

A hint of icy chill,
As people look around,
The tinge on their neck,
Instinct is on the lookout.

A coffee to go she pleads,
Pulling out exact change,
The cashier doesn't look up,
Why, he cannot say.

She slides away so quietly,
The haunted place grows bright,
Alone yet again,
This life offers no respite.

She's been alone forever,
Taking those in her path,
Her kiss is transitional,
She always leaves a mark.

She's had so many names,
She often forgets her own,
Misery, melancholy, sorrow,
Are only a few of those.

Depression is what she goes by,
Always on the move,
She's quite easy to identify,
But it's easier for people not to look.