Poetry

Rumba

In the heat of a Havana night, the rumba calls, A pulse of drums that beats like a restless heart. Feet slide on cobbled stones, hips sway in slow‑motion waltz, Each step a

Chore

A chore is a quiet kind of labour, a task that asks for tidy hands and steady rhythm, wiping the kettle, folding the socks, sweeping the porch where autumn leaves collect. It

Rivet

In the dim lit forge where sparks alight, A rivet lies, modest yet staunch, Its cylindrical form, a silent knight, Ready to clinch the joint’s fierce lunge. Head domed like a modest

Toast

Golden slices greet the morning light, Crisp and warm, a humble delight. Slathered in butter, jam, or marmalade, A simple toast, the day’s first parade. From the toaster’s gentle sigh to the

Sunny

Sunlight spills across the meadow, golden threads of morning light, warming every blade of grass, turning dew to tiny prisms. The sky, a clear cerulean dome, holds the sun in quiet triumph, while sparrows

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