Poetry

Craft

In quiet workshops, where wood and thread entwine, Hands trace the grain, the stitch, the steady line— A shaping thought becomes a tactile song, Each measured cut a patient, quiet throng. From clay that

Overt

Overt as the stain upon your shirt, That bloomed at lunch—a puddle of hurt— You dab and dab with fervent prayer, While strangers stare and point right there.

Whiny

Whiny whispers drift through the afternoon, A plaintive sigh that lingers in the air— Each complaint a soft, persistent tune, That drags the sunshine into sullen glare. It slides across the kitchen

Speak

When the dawn breaks soft upon the quiet street, A single word can stir the hush beneath the feet. To speak is to unfurl a ribbon of bright sound, That weaves through crowded

Stung

Stung by the sudden sting of a summer bee, I reel beneath the amber sky’s soft gleam. The world, once calm, now hums with frantic glee, Each pulse a tiny, throbbing, crimson dream.

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