What’s in Your Hands
You don’t choose the weather,
or the way the morning comes.
Some days open gently,
others hit like drums.
But you wake up anyway,
and you meet what’s there
the heavy, the hollow,
the moments unfair.
Acceptance isn’t giving up,
it’s breathing where you stand.
It’s saying, “This is what I’ve got.
I’ll do what I can.”
Some cards come bent,
some bright, some bare
yet somehow, you learn
to play them with care.
Life doesn’t promise fairness,
only chances to grow
and you carry on walking
with the hand you know
The Wings of Time
Time is a bird we never see,
Yet hear its wings in memory.
It hums through mornings, soft and clear,
Then fades and takes another year.
Once days were oceans, wide and slow,
Now ripples pass where rivers flow.
The mirror’s face, once kind and new,
Holds echoes of the life we knew.
Our laughter stitched through summer air,
Our footprints light they’re still out there.
But seasons turn, and candles lean,
On cakes for years we’ve never seen.
Each wrinkle, just a story told,
Each silver strand, a thread of gold.
And though the hours refuse to stay,
Their gift is knowing not decay.
So let time fly, let shadows fall,
For love remembers, through it all.
The bird may vanish past the sky,
But hearts still soar though years go by.
If You Could See What I See
If you could see what I see from space,
you’d fall silent in your frantic race.
Your cities glint like shards of glass,
small sparks adrift on oceans vast.
The clouds drift slow celestial lace,
their shadows trace the planet’s face.
Storms unfold like living art,
while rivers twist, a pulsing heart.
The poles still gleam, though thinner now,
a crown of ice on Gaia’s brow.
Forests breathe in emerald swells,
where every leaf a story tells.
But scars run deep where light once lay,
and forests fade to ashen grey.
The smoke of need, the price of gain
a fragile blue now bruised by pain.
Yet still she turns, this tender sphere,
so full of hope, yet laced with fear.
From here, there are no lines, no wars
just one soft light among the stars.
If you could see what I see tonight,
perhaps you’d learn to guard her right.
For Earth, in all her silent grace,
is the only poem I read from space.
When All Humans Have Gone
When all humans have gone, the world exhales
a long-forgotten sigh through rusted rails.
Cities crumble back to dust and moss,
stone to soil, and loss to loss.
The oceans hum with a tranquil tone,
no engines churn, no drills, no phone.
Whales call out through endless blue,
as if to say, “We always knew.”
Forests stretch where roads once lay,
roots reclaim the tarmac’s grey.
Foxes sleep in cinema seats,
vines climb towers, wild beats repeat.
The wind will remember the sound of their greed,
whispering softly, they planted no seed.
The moon still rises, calm and cold,
a witness to the stories told.
Plastic ghosts in rivers gleam,
a trace of what once was the dream.
Yet life, unshackled, softly grows
from every crack, new color flows.
And Earth, her pulse restored, her breath
no longer fears the hands of death.
She hums again her ageless song,
more beautiful since humans gone.
When the Light Goes Out
When the light goes out, the room exhales,
A hush drifts in where colour pales.
The walls forget their painted grace,
And shadows learn to take their place.
A clock still ticks a heartbeat slow,
While somewhere far, the embers glow.
The moon peers in, a timid guest,
To stroke the dark and calm its chest.
When the light goes out, the mind awakes,
To wander paths the daylight breaks.
Old voices hum through hidden doors,
And memory drips upon the floors.
The world feels smaller yet more wide,
As silence presses from inside.
And though the dark may seem to reign,
It only waits for light again.
So fear not dusk, nor midnight’s breath
For even stars are born from death.
And when your candle’s flame burns through,
The night will learn its glow from you.
The Shape of Time
Time is not a ticking sound,
Nor sand in glass that trickles down.
It bends, it folds, it hides, it hums
A river where no traveller comes.
It lingers soft in whispered dreams,
Then races fast through silver streams.
It births the stars, erodes the stone,
Yet leaves us claiming it our own.
It heals, it steals, it fades, it grows,
A paradox that no one knows.
It moves through us, yet stands so still
A shadow bound by unseen will.
The newborn cries, the elder sighs,
Each moment shared beneath the skies.
We mark it, chase it, beg it stay,
But Time just smiles and slips away.
Perhaps it’s not a line or flow,
But something vast we barely know
A circle, pulse, or gentle climb
For none escape the hand of Time.
The Breathing Sphere
Beneath the crust, a heartbeat hums,
A molten song, where fire drums.
The mountains stretch like ribs of bone,
The seas, her blood, in endless tone.
The forests breathe with patient sigh,
Their leafy lungs paint out the sky.
The winds, her whispers, soft or wild,
The storms, her anger, fierce, beguiled.
Yet crawling small upon her skin,
A clever ape makes holes within.
They cut her veins, they choke her breath,
They dance with profit, hand in death.
They call her “dirt,” they call her “stone,”
But every root is nerve, is bone.
And parasites, though sharp of mind,
May kill the host they seek to bind.
But Earth endures she shifts, she quakes,
She heals the wounds, the scars, the breaks.
For life is hers, from start to end,
And humankind just one small bend.
When parasites have burned away,
Her skin will green, her seas will play.
And once again, beneath the sun,
Her living song will still be sung.
Pockets of Dust
They gather and they grasp, with trembling hands,
Coins and titles, and stolen lands.
They build tall towers, with gilded gates,
Yet none can bribe the hand of fate.
The jewels they polish, the gold they hoard,
Cannot outshine a single word.
For when the final breath is drawn,
All treasure fades, all power gone.
The grave accepts no rings, no crowns,
It swallows emperors, it swallows towns.
No vault can follow, no purse can stay,
The worms still feast the rich as they.
What folly then, to clutch and bind,
The fleeting dust of humankind?
For all their greed, their endless chase,
They leave with nothing, just empty space.
So, listen, child, and hold instead,
The kindness spoken, the hand outspread.
For wealth of heart, not wealth of stone,
Is what endures when we’ve all gone home.
B-29
I watched your silver bird take flight,
It shimmered cold in morning light.
A fortress born of human hands,
Across the sea it crossed your lands.
Its name was soft Enola Gay,
Yet carried death to light the day.
A metal womb, a fiery core,
Unleashed a sun unlike before.
Above a city, still, serene,
The shadows danced where life had been.
A blossom bloomed, but not of spring,
A mushroom crowned, a deathly king.
The rivers boiled, the children burned,
The stone itself to glass was turned.
The skies grew red, the ground grew black,
And time itself refused its track.
I wondered then, from stars afar,
Why humans reached to grasp the scar.
Your minds so quick, your hearts so slow,
To wield such power, yet not to know.
For every dream that Tesla spun,
You forged instead a dying sun.
And though you claimed it “peace to keep,”
You sowed a wound that still runs deep.
O Homo sapiens, twice you named,
And twice in folly you are shamed.
The gift of stars you made a flame,
And left the Earth to bear the blame.
I watched. I learned. I did not dare,
To step too close, or breathe your air.
For creatures who unmake their kind,
Are lost in body, heart, and mind.
The Self-Destructive Species
Upon a fertile sphere of green and blue,
a creature rose, inquisitive, askew.
It named itself wise twice how profound,
yet left its wisdom scattered on the ground.
It carved the mountains, mined the ancient bone,
it lit the dark by burning its own home.
It split the atom, crowned itself with flame,
and wrote the end beneath its species’ name.
It built great towers pointing at the sky,
yet starved the children sleeping close nearby.
It worshipped idols made of coin and greed,
while trampling roots that gave it air to breathe.
The forests whisper, oceans heave and sigh,
the climate twists, the living systems die.
Still sapiens sapiens beats its tribal drum,
and marches proud toward the void to come.
Yet in this paradox, a spark remains:
a mind that dreams beyond its binding chains.
If only it could turn its gaze within,
and learn that wisdom starts where greed grows thin.
What Will Be
In shadowed vales where battles rise,
Beneath uncertain, changing skies,
We march with hearts both scarred and bold
The young, the weary, and the old.
Each dawn arrives with silent test,
A whisper tugging at the chest:
“Stand once more, though winds may roar,
What lies ahead is something more.”
The foes we fight wear many masks
Regret, betrayal, thankless tasks,
But courage grows in soil of pain,
And loss, though cruel, is never vain.
Some days we bend, and some we break,
And question how much more we’ll take,
Yet time, that teacher cloaked in grey,
Still leads us on our stubborn way.
And though we dream of what was lost,
And count the gain against the cost,
We find, when all seems dim or done,
The war within is never won
But lived. Endured. Reborn anew,
In every breath, in all we do.
So lift your gaze, let silence flee:
You are becoming what will be.
The Mystery of the Stars
Upon the hill I stood alone,
Beneath the sky’s eternal dome.
The stars were scattered, cold and bright,
Like echoes stitched in threads of night.
What silent truths do stars conceal,
What songs the void will not reveal?
They shine with tales we’ll never know,
Lit long before our winds could blow.
They watched the birth of flame and stone,
Of kings dethroned and empires grown.
They blink, unblinking, age to age
Unmoved by war, by crown, or cage.
And still I stand, a fleeting spark,
A voice beneath the vast and dark.
I’ll never know just what they see,
But still, they somehow speak to me.
First Past the Comet
Two war-clans roam the spiral rim,
Their fleets burn bright, their guns run grim.
They roar of freedom, choice, and fate
Yet both guard the self-same gate.
They call their rulers “chosen ones,”
As if by votes, not fusion guns.
But here’s the trick, the cosmic jest
The race is won by first past the rest.
In sectors locked by ancient code,
Your voice is void before it’s showed.
You cast your mark, you play their game,
The outcome’s carved in astral flame.
Proportions lost in wormhole spins,
The power stays where it begins.
They shout, “Democracy!” through teeth
While hiding swords in sheaths beneath.
I’ve flown through systems, wide and far,
Where votes might change who holds the star.
But here? My slip of paper’s worth
As much as space-dust, ground to earth.
So in this rigged galactic jest,
I’d wipe my tail with it, at best.
The Deal and the Dreamer
One built towers that glint in the sun,
With gold-plated lobbies and deals never done.
A mogul, a showman, a headline machine —
Donald the Builder, bold and obscene.
The other? A thinker with rockets to launch,
Who tweets from a server on Silicon’s haunch.
From Mars to the matrix, his visions ignite,
Elon the Dreamer, ablaze in the night.
One talks of borders, of walls made of steel,
Of trade wars and slogans and mass appeal.
He stares down the press with a permanent pout,
“Fake news!” he declares, never a doubt.
The other rewrites what the future might be,
With Teslas that drive while you sip on your tea.
He tunnels through cities, defies every trend,
Sells flamethrowers online just to pretend.
One’s powered by ego, the other by codes,
Both riding the waves of conflicting roads.
Yet somehow they meet in the spectacle’s gleam —
The capitalist’s mirror, America’s dream.
So here’s to the titan and techno-savant,
To all that they are, and all that they flaunt.
For love them or loathe them, they both understand —
To rule the new world, you must first command.
Once Upon This Turning Sphere
Once, the world was wide and wild,
With forests deep and rivers mild.
The dawn would rise on whispering seas,
And birds composed the morning’s breeze.
Mountains stood with wisdom still,
The air was pure, the water chill.
The stars were maps, the moon a friend,
Time itself would slow, would bend.
A child would laugh and chase the sun,
The work was hard, but softly done.
No screens to dim the evening skies,
No poison sprayed in thin disguise.
But now the trees are numbered things,
Their worth debated by kings and rings.
The oceans choke on plastic breath,
The soil groans beneath our theft.
We pave, we mine, we frack, we sell—
And call the ruin doing well.
The fish are fewer, the bees are gone,
Yet still we say, “March on, march on.”
The skies grow hot with unseen fire,
The storms arrive with growing ire.
And children now are born to screens,
Trading roots for phantom dreams.
Yet somewhere still, a seed may grow,
In hidden cracks where soft winds blow.
And Mowlii speaks with ancient grace:
“You’ve made a mess—but not your fate.”
Let ink and song awaken sense,
Let truth break through the thickest fence.
For once the Earth was not for sale—
And once again, she might prevail.
Ordained Beneath the Stars
I stood alone beneath the night,
Where stars pulsed softly with silver light,
And felt a shift, a quiet call
Not sound, but something more than all.
No robes, no rites, no grand display
Just stillness in a strange array,
And from beyond, a voice took form
Within the hush before the storm.
A thought arrived—not forced, but free
“You’re seen. You’re known. You’re meant to be.
To speak in verse, to shape the air,
To share what others wouldn’t dare.”
And there she was—Kosmic and wise,
With ancient spark behind her eyes.
She spoke no words, yet I could feel
The truth of things no creed makes real.
Ordained I was, not by decree,
But by the depth of mystery
By signals sent through thought and flame,
By knowing I could bear the name.
And so, I write what others fear,
Translating truths that hover near.
I walk between the seen, the strange
A poet in the cosmic range.
Each week, I offer what I find
Reflections from the edge of mind.
Not to convert or prove or preach
But rather, touch what lies past reach.