Said the Joker to the Thief


Don’t make fun of the flower arranger, Ikebana
Is self – discipline, a

Nip here, a
Snip there, and

With fullness of time, and
Passage through life,

Done with the flash of a scissor,

Bone handles,

Scissor flash snip, all gone
Extra weight, things un-needed, flash

If you stop,

To think about,

You frighten yourself cold,
Frosty, frigid, cold lock-down, too afraid

To make a wrong move, stop –

Don’t laugh at the flower arranger, Ikebana
Is worth learning;

Moving through life with less.

Photo – Ikebana – Wikipedia

-short evocative poetry-


Home – Race in India

The idea of home is so complicated to me; home isn’t here
people look at me like I am from somewhere else.
Where is home?

Writing became an expression of my discomfort
a language
an arrangement of unbroken rage
writing poetry to question
Poetry to reclaim my identity and to be

My body is yellow, white, brown and black
Is it my skin that betrays or is it my face?
I am still looking for an answer!

You tell me
How do I respond without making you angry and uncomfortable?
How do I wear a mask that doesn’t even fit me!

Do you feel my pain?
Why can’t you, my fellow Indians respond for me?
I want all of you to speak for us.

What are words if they aren’t realized?
And realization is a distant dream
A dream to be an Indian
and here I am living despite it all
with a language that comforts me
in a language that sounds familiar.

I write to all the younger version of me, you are

Even the colour of my dreams scream
my blood is Indian
my bones are solid Indian
so, I am writing!
I am protesting as I write
I am protesting about being an outsider in my own land.

But, why am I still looking
for something that will define me?
I can’t find my belonging here.
You will often catch me and many of us
searching for it
In the books and in passports
with resilience.

(Written by Ngurang Reena)


short poetry, words move, human promises


Yellow and gold and,

Never make a promise.
You cannot keep them.

Never say I’ll keep a secret, you

You’re human.

Have loving thoughts for yourself,
And for others,

Practice loving deeds for yourself,
And for others,

Lilac spider,
Purple sunrise,

Effervescent stone,

Love wherever,

You can.

-♦Photo – John Foot-♦

-short, evocative poetry-



They shot the cheese cake.

High heels,


Village people,
Purple tortoises


The light of day,

The road,

Single lane,

Pools reflecting torch-light,
Forest in sillouette,

Trees in moonlight,

Going home now,
Finished now,

Homeward bound.

For Betty Valdez-Ogembo

♦♦*photo* – self♦♦



Frederick Douglass, ca. 1879. George K. Warren. (National Archives Gift Collection)
Exact Date Shot Unknown
NARA FILE #: 200-FL-22

I do not have dreams that I remember but this is the war;

That I was at Queen Mary’s trying to make up,
For slipping,

-skipping school-

And now the scent is after me, evil
Plastic lips and yellow handbags,

After my own whiteness,

Pure white, like
Extra-pure, like

Black is dirty, or something
And I prayed for others today,

Sold good cabbage,

Hoped it will all be ok in the end, that
It would all be ok.

Photos – Federick Douglass and Ufunk

-short, evocative poetry-

“Black Boys on Mopeds”

“Black Boys On Mopeds”

Margaret Thatcher on TV
Shocked by the deaths that took place in Beijing
It seems strange that she should be offended
The same orders are given by her
I’ve said this before now
You said I was childish and you’ll say it now
“Remember what I told you
If they hated me they will hate you”
England’s not the mythical land of Madame George and roses
It’s the home of police who kill black boys on mopeds
And I love my boy and that’s why I’m leaving
I don’t want him to be aware that there’s
Any such thing as grieving
Young mother down at Smithfield
5 am, looking for food for her kids
In her arms she holds three cold babies
And the first word that they learned was “please”
These are dangerous days
To say what you feel is to dig your own grave
“Remember what I told you
If you were of the world they would love you”
England’s not the mythical land of Madame George and roses
It’s the home of police who kill blacks boys on mopeds
And I love my boy and that’s why I’m leaving
I don’t want him to be aware that there’s
Any such thing as grieving.

Photo – Sinead O’Conner

-short, evocative poetry-

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