Poetry

Donald Trump

The Hair That Would Not Yield There once was a man with a style, Whose hair seemed to stretch half a mile. It swirled like a crown, Never quite settling down— A meteor caught in

Motorcycles

In a lane of thrum and humming steel, The motorcycle sings, a freedom‑anointed wheel. Its chrome‑kissed hood against the wind’s bright blur, A pair of riders – two souls, a lone piper. The clutch‑lever

Dough

In the bowl's soft embrace, Flour and water meet, A pale, yielding mound, Waiting for the yeast's quiet hum. Kneaded with patient hands, It swells like a secret breath, Golden crust promises, Warmth that lingers

Apples

In the orchard where the trees stretch wide, I taste the crisp, bright favourite bite, Their skins a ruby cloak of sweet surprise, With colour that turns dull to delight. The wind

Vowel

Vowels In the silent silence of the alphabet, the five soft seats—A, E, I, O, U— await the tongue’s gentle brush. They are the heartbeats of every word, the oscillating hum of syllables, the breath that

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