Poetry

Uvula

A tiny pendant in the throat’s soft keep, The uvula dangles, a shy, pink bead, Guarding the gateway where breaths and words sweep, A vigilant sentior where food and air are fed.

Inner

Inner In the quiet chambers of the mind, Where thoughts unwind like soft-spun thread, A lantern flickers, gentle, kind— Its glow the secret places fed. Here feelings nest, both fierce and

Swell

Upon the shore the tide begins to swell, A rolling hush of silver‑blue that tells Of distant winds that sigh across the main, And lift the gulls in lazy, graceful strain. When hearts are

Easel

On a quiet studio floor, the easel stands— a humble wooden frame, steady and grand. It cradles the canvas, a patient host, holding each brushstroke, each whispered ghost. From dawn’s soft light

Sandy

Sandy whispers beneath the sun‑kissed shore, Each grain a memory the tide has stored. Golden dunes stretch, a soft, undulating quilt, Where children’s laughter and seagulls tilt. Footprints fade, yet the sand

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