Poetry

Quark

The Quark’s Lament In the quiet heart of the atom’s core, A restless sprite of energy does roar. It jumps between worlds of strange contrariness, Three flavours, each with its own caress. Colour‑charged, it carries

Cool Hand Luke

Cool Hand Luke In a remote winter stretch of the Southern state, the ledger of the prison rolls black‑and‑white, and there stands a man—Luke, with a stare that’s mute, his beard trimmed like a

Manic

The Manic Waltz In the dimming light of a London evening, the city hums a low, restless beat; rain slaps the cobbles like a drummer’s wrist, each splash a phrase in someone’s mind. There, in

Joker

The Joker's Riddle In London’s misty lanes I hear a laugh, A cackling echo that no Londoner can halt. Not a clown of court, but mortal’s worst delight, A mind unravelling under the city’s

Eight

In the quiet quiet of a London evening’s glow, I count the eight brass‑band notes that swell, Each rung a promise, each hymn a gentle oath— A rhythm of a town where bargains

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