secret spot

in the still of the morning, i dismounted from my bike,

and i headed out on foot, for an early morning hike.

at last! my secret spot, i hadn’t been to for a year,

and i cried out on the wind, “i’m still here! i’m still here!”

–photos by me

the size of a poem

the sun is a point in the cosmos,

the earth, but a mere speck of dust,

and i’m a small ant on that anthill

just doing the small things that i must.

***

and so the whole thing makes me wonder,

here, in my minuscule home:

if i should jot down some small verses,

then what is the size of that poem?

***

Is it as big as the cosmos,

or infinitesimally small?

perhaps when it comes to poetry,

the truth is that one size fits all.

–photo not by me

my inner rebel (archives)

as i was walking home last night, a thunderstorm blew in,

but i would not be hurried though the rain would soon begin.

lightning arced across the sky in splendid disarray,

and for a moment night became as naked as the day,

and though the wind began to drive the rain against my face,

i challenged heaven’s fury, and i kept my steady pace.

the sky unleashed a deluge as the wind began to roar,

and soon the blinding sheets of rain had drenched me to the core.

eventually, the rain let up, the wind began to die,

and soon a warm and gentle breeze began to clear the sky;

the stars came out like shining jewels adorning heaven’s dome–

the storm had passed, and now at last, i ran like hell for home.

–image by ai