On each line
lays buried,
a vanished river;
a brief history
of my pain.
Like criss crossing veins
on the plane of a leaf
they create patterns;
a map of my inner strife.
In solitude
I yearn,
a hunger inexplicable
in words, burns inside;
a new leaf
with eclectic patterns
is magically born,
my moment of
serendipity blooms.
I feel the warm kiss
of sun on my tender leaf

Old cherry tree beams—
Wind shudders through dark branches,
  .  .  .  White petals falling.

Hey, sir, take home this razor
The sharpest one in silver chrome
While you would have the shaving pleasure
I could cut bread at home.
Cuts so fine your face would treasure
Get it and have the smoothest cheek
While you would have the shaving pleasure
I could feed my kid for a week.
It’s so cheap sir, just a shilling
Your fortune’s armor in silver chrome
May bring you good luck, god willing,
I could light a fire at home.

I couldn’t read you
After these many years
Words I thought would bring you cheers
Brought your eyes a drop of dew.
I couldn’t be your perfect guy
What I tried all the while
Couldn’t bring your eyes a smile
There still lumps of sadness cry.
My woman after these many years
I couldn’t get through your tapestry
You still remain Christie’s Mystery
Couldn’t explore your hidden layers.

The riddles inside me
Are set free
Through poems.
They go on a ride
In the world outside
Turn to frozen frames!

the last thing you can ever allow someone to do
is to allow them to control your happiness