In her previous life, my mother
must have been an architect.
She brought to each family occasion
her vision, her love of precision, her stability
- ensuring the family structure
was sustainable and capable
of longer-term development
- and we still bear her signature style.

In her previous life, I’m sure
my mother was a portrait painter
- able to take a fresh canvas,
such as mine and my sisters’,
and add layer upon layer
of colour, of texture, to portray
what she saw we would become
– each proudly bearing her inscription.

In her previous life, I expect
my mother was a pioneer
– not of paths yet travelled,
but of more frequented avenues,
boldly exploring the details and intersections
between friends and neighbours
helping us rediscover what we had in common
- each fresh bond bearing her seal.

In this life, my mother
was an endurance athlete, a gifted healer, a 5-star chef,
a respected teacher, a talented mediator, a wise counsellor,
an innovative financier, a diligent archivist, and our chief story-teller.

In this life, she was my mother.

"I know where you live", he said,
"so it's best that you'll behave.
Don't get me angry or else,
I'll make you dig your own grave."

"Why are you like that", I said.
"I don't know what wrong I've done."
"You know what it's about", he yelled,
"you've been unfair to my son."

"But Brian is not the talent as you think,
he's insubordinate and mostly rude,
he will probably fail the term,
if he continues in this attitude."

"But isn't it your responsibility
to turn him into a decent being?"
"Education begins at home, you know,
although your kin might be disagreeing."

Sometimes I find myself wishing for more;
That I could make something better than before.
Everything I’ve done is a one-time exception;
I face myself with thorns rather than acception.

Surely my successes were merely chance!
Ideas don’t come to me like they did in the past.
People say they see talent in me, I see nothing—
Then again, would I even know I was good at something?

I want to let go of something I hold endeared,
it pains me so,
but it'll hurt me more
if I don't...
let go

What the eff is up with this site?
Why is it most people on the front page can't write?
Folks just babble on and on...
Or spit out a two line poem
Which is fine if it's a two punch knockout
Instead of sounding like a grammar school dropout
And why do certain things get so many views?
I can't seem to get more than two
Post crap if you want, if that's what people write
But they should give everybody a chance on this site
So I don't write about flowers or blather on about paint
So I don't pretend to be something I ain't
We should all have a voice here, The good and the bad
The silly, the happy, the lost and the sad
So come on hellopetry, give gutter poets a try
If you'd rise just a bit, we could meet eye to eye.

on that day
she performed the dance
in a mortal silence

lustful intensity,

the unusual
exit with the back
was hiding her face
without any wave of hope,
the eyes
where
seeking consolation,
her spine
became alive
like a tempting serpent,
arms
were wavy wings
a cry for help,
legs outstretched
like two cello strings
rising
under the guidance
of internal forces,

the pirouettes
faked
with a great talent
the lack of courage,
as a sacrifice brought to the air
she kept doing
dozens of rotations
as if
the body
was anointed
with the dark air,

then,

it fell into its arms
like a wet coat,

every movement
spoke
again and again
"I love you
and
I hate you",

sun rays
died
in a light
that bowed obediently
under  the public eyes
riveted
like a forest
of frozen trees,
waiting for
what's next

-The only solution to suffering

If you desire to have peace of mind until the day you perish,

You must attach yourself to nothing including things you cherish.