poetry

Ghost Light

For me, the smell of a theatre still intoxicates me.

There is nothing more sublime than being the last one out at the end of the night, and catching that furtive glimpse of the lone ghost light—bravely peering his way into the darkness and keeping vigil over our stage as if it were the very ramparts of Elsinore.

And indeed, sometimes it is…

The Outgoing Tide

As surely as the tide will come

We know it cannot stay

Steadfast faith the sun will rise

We know it’s just the day.

The willow cannot help but weep

When winter drives with scorn

But even willow takes a pause

When spring again is born.

So when the tide had come and gone

The sun arose and fell

The willow tree had lost its buds

Were we to do as well?

But with the morning comes the tide

To wash away our tears.

The sun will rise to dry our cheeks

And take away our fears.

A Pox on Both Our Houses

Rome fell for falling

A victim of conceit

If we won’t rise to mend our ways

At last our ends will meet.

The fall of Rome passed us by

Although we share its fruit

We take no heed in what was lost

Or what we gained in loot.

For now, the Empire’s come and gone

The ruins left to roam

Descend upon this tourist spot

And then return back home.

Are we to see ourselves in them?

A culture far from us

They lived – they breathed – they die no more

Returned back to the dust.

If there’s a lesson in Rome’s fall

America’s Exception –

Is liberty and freedom

And have been from inception.

Those we brought from far away

Wear masks that grin and lie

They have to keep their faces hid

Or happy pain belies.

Meanwhile those that die by day

Weren’t killed by masked assailants

They died from fighting selfish neighbors

Who boasted breath free from ailments.

Rome fell for failing to stand

Just as we will fall ourselves

If we can’t come together now

They’ll read our demise from shelves.

A house divided cannot stand

A nation is no stronger

If we don’t rise to mend our ways

We won’t be here much longer.

“Fake News (2020)”

If oceans were puddles and puddles were men

We’d live to be twenty, but wish to be ten.

Our questions would end before they began

Like ships to a shore that hadn’t left land.


Splendid sun cannot well show

Before the moon is down

If son is born before dad’s voice 

Then mothers have no sound.


Silly mind, you use yourself

To nudge a slumb’ring snail

It’s wrapped itself a riddle

Your ship has long set sail.


What’s to stop a probing mind?

Curses of poor breeding?

If you can’t stand for truth and facts,

You’ll fall for anything.