in the city i was born
beside the center of town
there’s an old cultural house
a theatre, a bar and a lounge,
all in one
with shining lights,
it greets you,
almost immersive,
with “royal”
written in cursive

welcome in
to the place where i’ve danced
with bodies of the present,
and shadows of the past,
where ghosts still sing,
buried and cast,
theatrical songs,
with melodies that last,
you may hear the message,
if you join the dance,
clear and strong
they sing
“the show must go on”
in the place with shining lights
that greets you, almost immersive,
with “royal”
written in cursive

welcome in,
where two souls,
destined by chance,
dance in a forever waltz
stuck by their hands,
they met in the theatre bar,
not sitting afar,
they gave each other a glance
their eyes stuck ajar,
they knew it was fate,
a few words exchanged,
a few sweet kisses,
and soon they would be engaged,
the unknown “mr and mrs”
and married in a place
that greats you
almost immersive
with “royal”
written in cursive

welcome in
if you come to perform
or to dance,
just know theres a chance
you’ll stay forevermore
for art or for romance
your ghost will remain
in the place with shining lights
that greets you, almost immersive,
with “royal”
written in cursive

Strands of wind go over a city,
Blowing out tender light in the sky.
Through the streets, down the road to the center,
It comes dressed in a decayed facade.
A murmuration of starlings keeps changing,
Notwithstanding the wall clouds around.
With no omen outside of the collapsing mansion,
In the dark, it is cornered yet smiled.

Forming a shape in the air, on the windows,
Drumming as if it wants to break in.
And it murmurs sweet words you won't listen,
Since you've locked yourself deep and within.
Shallow eyes are alive, out for answers;
Nails break tissues, revealing the red.
For a decade, a line hasn't been crossed
But it walked over soon when the warning was made.

Now it wears the nice clothes, and it fakes it so well,
Keeping in what is broken, wallowing with no shame.
And the world doesn't notice, the sky is now clear.
You are staying in the corner, so fragile and thin.
It came up with all answers; didn't want to break in.
It is wearing a suit you sewed to fit in.
It might not look so pretty; alas people do not care.
They don't tell empty words from the hell that is there.

It speaks loudly, as sane, without a shadow of doubt.
And the voice that was sweet now has familiar sounds.
Birds are gone with the wind, there is one to blame.
You did not let it in yet allowed it to stay
And replace what was live with what had to be gone.
It is rotten inside; now your mouth's rotting, cold.
Your hands opt for a battle but are biding and glued.
It is seen by too many; you, forgotten and *******.

Picking rags from the floor, you come out of the room.
All of a sudden it is you covering light in the blue.
And you don't realize just how long it has been.
You've been searching for an exit you've robbed yourself of. Still,
You beat on the windows, again and again,
You are hoping to wake what is already dead.
Wasting wishes for a dream to end up somewhere else.
Coming back into clothes that just fit it too well.

Down the hall
Back and to the right
Past a broken neon sign
Through an unlocked door
Then down four flights
A hole in the wall
In a room on the left
Follow it down
Through dirt and rock
After more than a while
You'll see a faint light
A oil lamp hanging
Kept by those who travel
So bring some won't you
The oil that is
Not much further past
You'll  find what you seek
The city beneath the city
The world and the way
That we abandoned long ago
The past they made us forget
And the future that might still be

Answers to the questions you always wanted to ask the departed:
(A counter poem with answers after Ellen Bass Inquest)https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2025/06/09/inquest-ellen-bass-poem

She loved apricots, not figs.  
Olives reminded her of saltwater,  
and the yellow irises—those were never hers.  

Her feet stayed clean because she refused to walk barefoot,  
never trusted the ground, never trusted much at all.  

She did not cut her hair  
because she liked the weight of it,  
the way it draped across her shoulders  
like something constant.  

The married man was nothing—  
just a name she could never forget.  

She was terrible in the kitchen  
because she never measured,  
because she thought heat would shape things just fine.  

The chickens shat everywhere  
because she let them,  
because she found humor in their mess.  

The fog over the bridge,  
she watched it,  
but never spoke about it,  
never pointed, never sighed.  

She never trusted anyone fully.  
She won raffles because fortune liked her better than she liked herself.  

She sang the same lullaby her mother sang to her—  
a tune no one quite remembers.  

On the floor, waiting,  
she thought about nothing.  
That was the thing she was best at.  

She could never give up kisses,  
never told where she found the chanterelles.  

She left too much behind  
and too little at the same time.

ABANDONNED GARDEN

There is a clatter of brightness
trembling trough the branches,
as pillars of light fill empty spaces
with fragrance. Rose bushes stand
deep in grass , cobwebs breathe
between in olive trees where
memory lingers in a feathered
breath of bird.

The earth is fragrant
with past seasons and what
was there before . Unknown
is everywhere but there is
no pace outside today.

The sun behind white clouds
smiles on blooming weeds
in their unhurried  spaces.
They let the wind of world
fly through not concerned
about arriving.

Uncertain as a poem,
the garden’s voice,
sometimes a sweet
twitter, sometimes
a whispered  echo,
each word spoken
spinning its own
meaning through
earth and silence.