Poetry

Warrior

The Warrior’s Oath In the mist‑cloaked vale where old iron churns, A young blade rides to meet the dawn’s cruel glare; Through cistus‑wrenched streets, his purpose burns— Not for glory’s crown, but for people’s

Dead Poets Society

In the flickering hush of that old‐fashioned Houghton‑like campus, the stone‑crusted walls seemed to chuckle at the ordinary. Mr Keating, with a grin that stole from the light‑hearted galleons of a far‑away Peruvian

Fargo

On a winter’s morning in Fargo the air is thin and rangy, The freeway lights flash like a row of white oaks in a blur. Above the flatlands a pale blue sky,

The Best Years of Our Lives

The Best Years of Our Lives In the gutter‑washed glow of Fleet Street’s streetlamp, we found our shy first steps, unshackled and bright. A diary, a jolly motoring‑class of life, we said “cheers” to

Erase

On the blackboard’s slate, the hand lifts the old‑rubber— A quiet, silver friend that knows the art of forgetting. The graphite lines sigh, absorbed by the play of light, And in that hush

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