Poetry

Bevel

On the quiet bench where timber sighs, A bevel waits, a slanted whisper, Its edge—soft‑cut, a gentle rise— Turns plain board into light‑kissed glister. In joiner’s hand the plane does glide, Shaving off

Briny

Briny whispers kiss the tide’s edge, Where salt‑kissed waves caress the shore, A lover’s sigh in sapphire pledge, The ocean’s breath forevermore. In rocky coves the gulls do cry, Their wings aloft in

Stall

In the market’s hushed morning light, A wooden stall stands patient, bright, Its canvas awning, striped in blue, Shelters wares both old and new. Apples gleam like polished stone, Loaves of crusty bread

Cumin

Cumin seeds, modest and brown, nestle in the jar’s dim light— a whisper of earth that rises when toasted in a hot pan, releasing a warm, smoky perfume that drifts through the kitchen like an old

Media

In the neon glow of midnight screens, where bytes cascade like restless rain, the world unfurls in pixel dreams, a ceaseless stream of joy and pain. Headlines flash in bold, stark type, tweets

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