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The birds start singing early in the summer
I hear them before I’m fully awake
And the warm breeze rustles my curtains
And causes the leaves and flowers to shake

When I come downstairs, the sunbeams
Spread from the window onto the floor
And light the kitchen with an orange haze
When I unlock and open the door

We bring our coffee onto the porch
So we can watch the birds while we drink
And you peel a couple oranges for us
While we sit and talk and think

The citrusy smell fills the air
When you set the peels out to dry
You arrange the slices on the plate
And set it on my thigh

It reminds me of when I was little
From sunrise till sunset I’d play
And run to the porch to eat orange slices
To keep the hunger away
1DNA 20h
A drop of memory-
Ripples,
Spreading wide
Vague feelings
Of sadness
And joy
Washes in waves
Random topic write   ;P
jewel 20h
If I looked close enough, maybe I could still catch the faint traces of lint drifting in the air from his clothes and his hair. He never vacuumed. His clothes were wrapped in scented trash bags and thrown into the backseat of someone else’s car. I sat at his desk, digits flitting across the screen and keyboard. Numbers and words turned into many little games and suddenly the table was far too small for this charade. A new day with a side of a strange cough and a glimpse of tea-stained mugs waiting quietly on the countertop. Little tired footsteps on porcelain became the melody I had grown accustomed to. I handed him his neatly packed things, and in exchange he lent me his ear. Then it turned to little blue bubbles. The strings connect us. Ma vacuumed his bed over twenty times in the morning before calling it quits. The traces of him were always overwhelming. It was always never enough.
copyrighted, poemsbyjewel (2025).
I pull the blanket close, but no,  

It’s never thick enough.  



Instead, her softness lingers,  

a tide that pulls me under.  

I love this blue, this ache,  

this slow and weightless drowning.  



I want to touch the ocean,  

to weave my hands through waves of hair,  

to hold her like the night holds moonlight—  



but you’re a desert’s mirage,  

a shimmer just beyond my fingers.  



I WISH I COULD CALL YOU  

THE WAY THE WAY I THOUGHT ABOUT YOU.  

JUST I WISH!
It's all about love...
Maria May 9
for times gone by

When I was small,
I used to sit on the sofa,
And look out to the garden.
It seemed the whole world.

Impossible to get bored, it was,
So full of life and colour.
Each day, each season,
Something new.

When the daffodils weren’t dancing,
The apples were ripe.
And if not the apples,
Then the holly and snowberries.

One day, the garden,
It greeted a sweet visitor.
A blackbird. I saw it and
Watched it with marvel.

I gave him a name, though I won’t say.
It was my secret you see?
He kept visiting,
This blackbird.

Once, I drew him with my pencils,
Trying to capture,
His beautiful feathers,
The way the light played the scene.

Time moved on quickly
And life only got busier.
Hardly had time to sit and
Look at the garden.

For some time, I’d look for him each day,
Slowly dwindled to a few.
There must have been,
A last look.

Time alone passed, and I visited
My parents at home.
One day, I thought of him,
And looked out. But he was not there.

The blackbird does not come anymore.
Ope
This lightning show has me thinking about that night again.
Without the self doubting guilt,
possibly for the first time.
Is it the combination of school and spring phermones?
The smell of the impending storms?
Or are you in my thoughts because I'm in yours.
The mixed tape spins again
turning silent keys.
The misfire of a cog
going nowhere forever.
Forever letting you go,
I've waited for no one.
Your voice and silhouette saved in the corners of me.
So magnanimous in my youth,
how I miss her again.
Last night I dreamt of my grandfather
Who died six months ago.
Passed away, people speak in my ear.
Yes, passed away. He passed away.
He passed away on one fine Saturday.

Two days ago, I wrote a poem.
A friend said, “Write one for him too.”
A eulogy?
My grandfather died six months ago.

He left a cane behind,
a torch
And diaries scrawled with debts:
Jamaal, 300.
Kamaal, 500.
Even our milkman who helped dig a grave.

Abu ji, dear Abu ji—We called.
Abu Ji died six months ago.
Passed away, they say. He passed away.
His friends say he passed away.
His sons say he passed away.
His wife—she says it too.
He passed away, they all say.

Last year, he gave me a shirt to wear
and a belt of fine yellow leather.
“This, I bought in the 60’s when I was young.
This, I bought when I was married.”
He talked of two dozen friends often,
a menudo, mi abuelo, Sus amigos.
I learned in Spanish.
A menudo: often,
Mi abuelo: My grandfather.
Sus amigos: His friends.
He spoke of his friends,
“My friends.”
Men, tall men in long boots and khaki uniforms,
who called him “Inspector,”, “Our dear inspector”
mis amigos y sus zapatos, I learned again.

Before he died, he asked
In a voice, strong, shrewd, and tired,
“Who won the election?”
“No one, for now.
Here, Congress had a rally today.
Yes, he… came to speak too.”
“A brave man,” he said.
“Yet…”

My grandfather died six months ago,
Suddenly. Of a heart attack.
I suppose.
I calmed his face by rubbing his chin,
He stared at me in a silent disbelief.
I took him to a hospital, my brother too,
“Check his pulse.”
“Is he breathing?”
“let’s turn back. There is no point.”

In the hospital, I was the brave one.
Even so, braver was my brother,
Quieter, shaken–he didn’t cry.
Nor did he in the ambulance,
Or at home.

Wrapped in a red blanket,
“Wait, did you tie his mouth?”
“Here. Take this bandage,
Tuck it beneath his chin.
What a fine beard.
What a fine man.
Are you the adult here?
Call your father”

“Father, come home. Abu Ji died.”
“Passed away,”. “He passed away.”
“Yes. He passed away.”
Brother, however younger, pats my shoulder,
“Do not cry. What shall we say?
What shall we ever say?”
“To whom?
“to mummy?”
We call our grandmother mummy.
“Yes, what shall we tell mummy?”
Abu Ji died. he died six months ago.
Passed away, she’d say. Passed away.

He died at noon. While eating.
He had only started.
A morsel of rice, dry in his white palm,
Mother screamed in disbelief,
I ran down, so did my brother
who had just come home.

“Why didn’t you come yesterday?
When I asked you to come yesterday,”
Abu Ji had said.
Then gave him all his keys
in an untimely hour.
“Quite lucky,” they said. “He gave you his keys before he died.”
Passed away, he says. He passed away.

Mother said, “Abu Ji called your name before he died.”
Passed away, she says. He passed away.
“He called your name before he passed away.”
I am shy about writing my name,
Too reserved to write my name.
If my name was Kamal, Abu Ji said,
“Kamal, come to me, I will die.”
If I was named Jamal, Abu Ji said,
“Jamal, come to me, I will die.”
Mother swears she heard it.
While Grandma was lost somewhere else.
“I heard him, he called your name.”
I do not believe it,
Not even six months later.


We came back in an ambulance
Received by 300 strange men
With 300 different hats
Men I only nodded to.
Men, who would visit my grandfather often.
“Pity, he was great.”
“Indeed. He was.”
“Oh, how every soul shall taste death”

Grandmother cried in disbelief,
“He did not die. Nor pass away.”
“Yes, you are right.”
“Yes, you are right.”

My grandfather died.
Six months ago.
I no longer cried; only felt sad.
Talk to people, I hear them say.
My great, great aunt and her great, great uncle
To their dismay
I thought of an old friend
who never calls.

My grandfather died,
Two months later, I met a friend
Where were you all this time?
She says, “I am sorry. Was he sick?”
I say, “It is all right. He was just old”
It is not all right.
“Do you miss him?” she asked again.
“I do not want to talk about it,” in disdain.
Not with her. Ever again.


My grandfather died,
Some say he called my name,
While others say he was a great man.
He left me an old ashtray,
his two diaries and a cane.
I do not want a key.
Or a shirt.
Or a belt from a forgotten age.

Last week, an old politician breathed his last,
This week, a city fell to a wildfire’s wrath.
Who is left to talk to anymore?
Last night I dreamt of him, saying that
wise old man is gone!
“Abu Ji, that city itself is ash and smoke too.”
What a pity.
My grandfather died.
Passed away; I remind myself.
Six months ago, he passed away.
Abu Ji, Dear Abu Ji.
To all grandfathers who make your lives better.
To all the best friends who always make you laugh.
Kalliope May 15
My feet move forward but my mind stays stuck,
I walked this road alone before, I tried to stop picturing you with me, no luck.
Though I know you're long gone, I still see you peripherally,
A shadow seeped into the corner of every memory.

Everyone I've ever loved has a home in me,
I let go in body, but in spirit you're weaved.
A tasty snack, an even better smell,
You're in my air, in this breeze, embodying a perfect  nostalgic hell.

I have new goals, new friends, new skills
From time to time I still think of our thrills,
Sometimes it's quiet reflection, sometimes its tearful and loud,
It's wild how I can still find you in once familiar sounds.

I can't bring you back but how I wish I could, if I could do it all differently believe that I would,
If I found you now would the spark remain the same?
Souls are so fragile, and who knows what time has changed.
I watched an anime recently Frieren: Beyond Jounery's End,
And it just really struck a cord with my soul
Dianali May 14
Heart is no closet
They say—
But in mine
Each compartment,
is perfectly organised.
I neatly fold
Your sighs—
Some still
tangled in my hair.
Your fervid stares,
Vacuum-sealed
In a box on the left shelf,
Next to the neck kisses,
faded birthday wishes,
and hangers —full of
teenage lust—
pressed, rarely worn.
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