Winter afternoons, when the sun sets soon,
Whiskey shots with a touch of PB spooned,
Takes the edge off —
Those missed moments;
Whispers of ‘not good enough’
And turns them into lessons learned;
War stripes rough —
Psychological scars of the well-lived.

Flames lick —
The candle’s wick
Consuming all — 
Waxy thick.
Fire purifies
Impurities’ sick
Enflaming all diseases
And sin’s teases
Leaving them but a speck.

He Choose to Grow Weak

Could you help me understand the complexities of our actions? When joy fills our hearts, we radiate positivity, but when sadness washes over us, it feels like an ache that permeates our very being (Proverb 17:22).

How can we support you if we remain in the dark about your feelings? You often bury your emotions deep within, creating a pressure cooker of unresolved thoughts and pain. In those shadows, you find yourself hiding away, tears spilling down your cheeks. Why did you choose to stay trapped in that desolate, lonely space? Remember, reaching out for help is not a sign of failure; it is a brave step toward healing.

Life resembles a resilient tree, swaying gracefully when the winds are gentle, yet vulnerable when fierce gusts challenge its strength. Why did you hesitate to step into the light from that somber, solitary existence? Like a tall, proud tree that can snap under overwhelming force, you, too, risk breaking under the weight of isolation.

Recognize that asking for help isn’t a trick or a sign of weakness. Carrying the burden alone is a choice that ultimately leads to a gradual decline in strength. Once again, you may feel like a small child, uncertain and timid. You declare, “Mommy, I am a big boy now. I can do everything by myself.” But in that misguided belief, darkness thickens, and the innocent are caught in the turmoil of your struggle.

I did my best and it was
Good enough for some
But not good enough for the entire circle.

I apologize to those passengers of Life
Who did not or could not see
The percipience of my nature
For they were involved in furthering
And sustaining their own
Patches of life and rightly so.

They blamed me for
Mismanagement of my own life
Which may have in some way
Ruffled the feathers of their opinions
What they saw as mistakes
I saw as vehicles to freedom
What they regarded as foolishness
I considered as creativity's spur.

The width of Raison d'etre is wide as sky
The length of choice is unfathomable
The height of desire reaches the stars
The Sun, its Planets and their Moons
Devices for every nature's florescence
Difference is not a defense
For claiming quality
It is the hallmark of creation's artistry.

The crisp of January and August's heat
The abundance of Autumn
And Spring's colorful spirit
Testament to the unstoppable diversity.

That Toothpick was like an emoji

What became of the elderly man who habitually lingered outside the pub, a toothpick perpetually perched between his lips?
I often pondered the significance of that toothpick—it seemed to serve as a silent emblem, a mysterious token of his unspoken thoughts.

As children, we absorb the world around us, processing our myriad experiences as we grow. When we reach adulthood, we find ourselves striving to unravel the complexities of those early moments.

I’ve always been captivated by the habits of grandmothers, particularly the way many would discreetly tuck their money beneath the layers of their skirts. I can still picture her, clutching her cherished apron, its fabric soft and faded, evidence of countless meals prepared with love. Even when we navigated the lively streets of the city, that apron was her unwavering companion.

Now, reflecting on those customs I once found peculiar, I recognize how the toothpick and the hidden money represented their ways of coping with life’s myriad challenges. The old man who so often graced the pub’s entrance has since passed, joining countless others who have left us. We gathered to honor their lives, sharing fond memories and kind words at their funerals.

Yet for me, the echoes of their lifestyles continue to resonate, capturing fleeting moments of nostalgia that refuse to fade away.

Brave birds bop 
On bare branches outside;
Grandpa’s dominating morning —
Grey and makes everyone flee.
Logic larks: get up and walk, see!
But bed, with an abundance of blankets
And rain, lots of rain, drips don't be insane,
Get warm!
Despite this, cold sausages and coffee call:
“Eat me!”
And I do oblige.

Dear Rosemary,
Your scent is so lovely;
Piney and fresh
I want to mesh
Your menth with mine,
You taste really divine 
With lamb, red wine and more
You linger in my garden galore.

I will live on
with or without you.

I won't cry,
I  won't die.
I will live on
with or without you.

With you, life can be
a smooth journey.
Without you
it will be lonely,
but
I will live on
With or without you.

My life is not mine alone -
It's tethered to my family and friends.
For them,
I will live on
with or without you.