Poetry

12 Angry Men

The Twelve in the Room A square of a classroom‑bar, so stark and still, the fire‑escape’s iron tie—cold to the wind. Three‑quarter‑not‑quite as “fingers‑crossed”, the men sit, faces unknowingly split by a case. It begins

Pulp Fiction

Pulp Fiction in a Colourful Grain In a quiet diner, two men sit for a bite, One tilts his camera, the other watches light. The conversation drifts in waves—“What’s the name of your

Gavel

The Gavel’s Quiet Would In the hush of the old courthouse, the gavel lies in shadow, wood‑brown pew, its handle, worn by gentle touch, echoing past tales of law’s firm pew. Its face,

Forrest Gump

Forrest Gump In a quiet corner of a cinema’s programme, where the screen flickers like a summer window, a story unfurls with a heart that beats so true— the gentle march of a man,

Swoop

Swoop On a pallid morn when the distant hills wear their mist‑clad cloaks, the air is slick with a promise of swift, unspoken rites. No lullaby but the faint rattle of the Robin‑hood of memory,

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