From the dusts of day
a day singles itself out
as forever remembrance.

On his calling
they met at the harbor town.

She had traveled all of twenty miles
from her seaward village
to pose with the city boy at a roadside studio
humidly dark from the blinding sun outside.

Time was captured eternally for the moment
the photographer drew them closer
freezing two awed eyes in frame.

They knew couldn't last
that unearthly day on the harbor town
made to stand closest
sparking a craving in their skin
and then passing into black and white postcard
of two sweating face
in absurdly ridiculous happiness.

The boy's copy was lost in the wind
but he loves to believe
the other is safe with her.

Where does my pen go?
I can’t find it in the pocket of my cold-faded jeans.
I used to have it when I was in college mingling with the intellectuals that try to find a good post in society.
Where is it now?

I have something to write on my hand size booklet.
Where does it go?

On a bus, I feel I’m pressing toward the sunset all day since it’s cloudy.
Here come the raindrops.
It finally touches my glass window.
I have more time to think on since travel would take few hours.
Have I slept?

I think I let it that way.
Too many words to utter but kept inside.
Then I’ll need to write it down.

Where does my pen go?
Years have become stitches in my mouth.
Ten thousand words to consolidate in a phrase. Can’t write it down.
I think my right hands can no longer connect with my fast aggressive left mind.
Stiches, more stiches to zip the words in my pocket.

My window started to moist.
Rain, let it rain.
The fog enters on a small hole.
I guess it clogs out the burden.

It melts the spirit of selfishness and now I wanna wield my pen and dance with it.
Still don’t have it.
As my finger walks through my glass window, I know I can write it down.
There it says “VOW YMC”.
Voice Out What Your Mind Conveys.

As I sip my cappuchino in a bar
In the north

The heart of The North
I think about the past

Of how it has come to be
Like this, tamed, no longer

A place of conflict
Just animosity

So strange to me
Ireland but not as I know it

Strange flags fly
On the roadside

Of Batallions,
And identities

All strangers to me
Then I see a tricolour

To remind me
This is Ireland too

It's still home, but not
Like my southern repose

The other funny thing is
I kinda like it here

in a tea house
a jasmine girl
plays a piano
shimmering a
song of soft keys
to a lotus blush
of fine infusing leaves.

morning, the jewels
of dawn’s filigree nets
a summer storm
in a wintry sky
coaxed out of
a melody of
incense, trembling
to the infinite
blossom of
tranquil, arching
skies.

your poetry, the
cadences of the sun
unwrapped,
the light of the
ocean
breathed
in,
beautiful moons
that weep for
life’s joys,
wild summer
in our hearts.