Tuesday 31 January 2012


your kiss is my awakening
lingering, full of promise 

your embrace is sweet freedom
enveloping, warm fire in winter  

your words, tender gold as maple leaves  
caressing my bare brown feet

father's harsh words faded  
mother's stinging hands mattered not

as you gaze at me,  fragrant 
and dainty as white trillium flower 

"There is nothing more valuable
than family honour."

a woman equal, worthy of
love and honour of your name

believing, i seize my fate 
sinking, falling unto you  

"You are a whore.
You are no daughter of mine."

despite my brother's cruelty
silencing the voices of my sisters

i cry out your name as
father's hand hammers my head

"My hands are clean.  
This is God's punishment." 

my hands are dirty and cold now
face spitted, body bloody bruised 

what price is my honour ?
look to the red sea, and call my name        

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - OpenLinkNight - Monday 
and D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - every Tuesday starting 3pm EST

Author's Note:   This is to give my support to the Jan. 29, 2012 decision by the Canadian jury on the guilty  verdict for the Shafia family (husband, wife and son) on four counts of first-degree murder. The crown alleged three teenage Shafia sisters were killed after bringing shame upon the family by dating, shunning traditional religious garb and skipping school. 
Rona Ambrose, Canada's minister for status of women, took to Twitter to comment: #Shafia. Honour motivated violence is NOT culture, it is barbaric violence against women. Canada must never tolerate such misogyny as culture."
source:  here and here

picture credit:   here

Sunday 29 January 2012


red ambrosia 
you fell on my plate

sweeping away
all lines of restraints  

turning the sun
into dark moon of dust

your ardour
wild pulse on my white palette  

swirling fruit 
dark plum, blackberries and spice 

exploding colors,
heady spell of purple and black  

on my tongue.
the wine tour guide was right 

you made dining 
heady and sensational delight.

Posted for The Mag 102 ~ hosted by Tess Kincaid 
Shared with Jingle Poetry at The Gooseberry Garden

I just came back from wine tasting tour along Niagara On the Lake, Canada.   Definitely worth going back. 

Picture credit: Red Spot II, Wallisy Kandinsky

Thursday 26 January 2012


Kneeling to slip off
massaging calf, he trails
warm hands on her smooth skin

he will show her
how strong he is,
warrior king,  
carrying her effortlessly

Kneeling to slip off
massaging legs, she tugs
to unbuckle his pants

she will show him
how strong she is,
warrior heart,
helping him walk again  

Posted for Flash Fiction Friday - Tell a story in 55 words - For the G-man.
I just learned that an officemate, newly promoted and young at 34, was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.      

picture source:  here

Wednesday 25 January 2012


she is unforgettable:   gourmet cook, 
skin soft as white magnolia petals,
lips warm and heady like his scotch whisky 

when she showed up one rainy morning, 
he feasted on hot Spanish chocolate cups,
honey tangled churros, and spicy chorizo  

fire on his tongue, he doesn't want to dull with cream                                    

Posted for Poetry Jam:   sensual poetry
Shared with D'verse Poets Pub:   Open Link Night - hosted by Joy Ann Jones

Poetry form:   Sevenling- a poem of 7 lines.  

Sunday 22 January 2012

Sevenling (Woman)

she closes her eyes only because of 3 things :
listening to Beethoven,  watching gruesome films,  
& biting into chocolate covered plump strawberries

she peruses carefully museum paintings,
second hand books on sale by the roadside, 
city map and bus schedules;   at night

on a tiny bed, she lays down to sleep on her choices   

Posted for The Mag:  101- My first time to post here.  Nice to meet all of you.

Shared with Real Toads - Open Link Night - Monday - Thanks for introducing me to the form Kerry~ Poetry form:  Sevenling - a poetry form of 7 lines.  The first three lines should contain an element of three - three connected or contrasting statements, or a list of three details, names or possibilities. This can take up all of the three lines or be contained anywhere within them. Then, lines four to six should similarly contain an element of three, connected directly or indirectly or not at all. The seventh line should act as a narrative summary or punchline or as an unusual juxtaposition. 

picture credit:   From Boris Hoppek's Tokyo exhibit "Ever"  

Saturday 21 January 2012

Lady of the Lake

the wooden fence waits,  
as the red hibiscus flowers bloom

rain water dulling its sheen 
from golden young to grey old  

harsh sun splinters wide-eyed
hollows to deep grooves and lines

weaving days and nights into years,
while waiting for the green light 

or maybe the white star we saw
when we drank rice wine with fish and chips  

or maybe the white peacock we passed
walking hand in hand, east and west entwining  

i wrote and recorded a love poem just for you,    
and wore my country's native dress, the colour you love

as i choose not to cross the border and stay 
where my soft voice is steel and sword 

every morning, i pluck the single red flower  
and tuck it behind my ear

i know you will always be 
waiting for me at the other side of the lake    

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Poetics : Borders  hosted by Claudia Schoenfeld.   
My inspiration for this post is the life story  of Burma's Aung San Suu Kyi.   

" That 1995 visit was the last time Michael and Suu were ever allowed to see one another. Three years later, he learnt he had terminal cancer. He called Suu to break the bad news and immediately applied for a visa so that he could say goodbye in person. When his application was rejected, he made over 30 more as his strength rapidly dwindled. A number of eminent figures – among them the Pope and President Clinton – wrote letters of appeal, but all in vain. Finally, a military official came to see Suu. Of course she could say goodbye, he said, but to do so she would have to return to Oxford.

The implicit choice that had haunted her throughout those 10 years of marital separation had now become an explicit ultimatum: your country or your family.  More ~ "

picture credit:  here

Thursday 19 January 2012

Summer dream

I want to fly back 
to pineapple kissed skies 
coconut tree lined beaches
home made ice cream and sweet rice cakes.

I said goodbye
my motherland almost 8 years ago

But come winter, 
all I want is to curl in her warm bosom.

Why did I migrate to this cold city?  

I'm a summer gal.

Posted for:   Poets United : Goodbye and Flash Fiction Friday :   For the G-Man.  It took me almost 2 hours to come home tonight because of the snow.  Oh well..such is life ~

Canada is a land of immigrants.   According to census figures, an estimated 1,110,000 immigrants arrived in Canada between 01 January 2001 and 16 May 2006. During this time period, these immigrants accounted for 17.9 percent of the total foreign-born population and 3.6 percent of Canada's total population of 31.2 million people.  The largest proportion of immigrants who arrived between 2001 and 2006 were born in Asia (including the Middle East) at 58.3 percent. In contrast, only 12.1 percent of immigrants for the same duration ending in 1971 were born in Asia.

Picture credit:  here


Tuesday 17 January 2012

Not the first time

he adores
the candle light playing on her sun-kissed skin

eyes closed, she smells of pink corals, and
orange sunset by the beach

for the first time, he is
shy and intimidated by their intimacy,

whispering softly, she says to her new lover,
do not be shy
we have been making love for days

he reaches
to touch her fullness, moonflower white  
fragile as a pearl,  in his firm arms
she is sensuality,  bold and heady

on his lips,
rapture dance of the sea and the sun

he knows 

as he writes and sings their music 
as he draws and paints their dance   

Author's note:   Posted for the OpenLinkNight of Real Toads and D'verse Poets Pub - every Tuesday starting at 3pm EST.   I am also writing nature themed posts in my other blog.

picture credit:  here

original post :   http://realmsofbeauty.tumblr.com/post/15910958702/sensuality-does-not-wear-a-watch-but-she-always

Saturday 14 January 2012


Dear Mr. Botero,

How you flatter me ! 

My breasts, fuller than the moon  

My thighs, bursting watermelon wide    

My waist, replete with honeycomb   

Long hair, wild crimson silk     

Lips, soft as primrose petals

You painted on the canvas.

Like Aphrodite rising from the sea

Did you really see that

beneath my plain and ill-fitting dress?

But if you think so, 

then come by my room


I will wait

along with my oranges

fleshy round and sweet.  

Yours truly,


Author's Night:   Posted for D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics by Fernando Botero
For today’s Poetics, I invite you to consider the visual art of Fernando Botero as an inspiration for your word-painting.  By Victoria Slotto.   

Poetry form:   I chose to write The Letter using Epistle.   Happy weekend ~      

Saturday 7 January 2012


walk beside me my love,
uncaged, you are beautiful   

heels click, clack, click, clack 
paws thump, scratch, thump   

it is not that i don't trust you
that i wrap you close my bosom, 

where i can see your green eyes, 
rage dark like waves on mudstone, 

hear your lusty roar as my hand
grasps tight your throat, squeezing

pulsing beat upon pulsing beat, until
life and death dances on your tongue,

like warm golden honey, ruSH 
more potent than coca leaves HIGh                  

SH...shush..no, it is because i don't 
want to wake the wild beast    

gr..grinding...gn..gnashing teeth
ch..chomping..cl..clawing veins of

your heart, if you step away, 
after slaking your thirst, your fill of me    

walk beside me my love, snap
chained,  you are even more 


Posted for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   You animal !
and D'verse poets Pub - Poetics - Onomato - This is just a fun write for me
Thanks for the visit.

picture credit:  http://www.tumblr.com/reblog/15347428841/ljLtTmtu

Thursday 5 January 2012


came in small
b i g

touching screen, read

using hand gestures,
spoken words to console,

p l a y


if only house would
obey when I say


I say, change is amazing.        

oops, amazing is one of overused words
in 2011.  

Posted for :   Do you have an amazing story to tell in 55 words?  Tell the G-Man. Flash Fiction Friday and Theme Thursday - Prompt is Change

Tuesday 3 January 2012

Song of parting

I wake up to flickering dawn
Heartbeat slow and measured
In the pale glimmer, I could not
See the careless strewn clothes
On the floor and chair, somewhere

Along the night’s careless pulse,
When your dazed eyes bore into mine,
Bright with passion, your lips quiver
My bold surrender and anticipation
Just me, only me, in your arms

I whisper your name, but you are quiet,
Sober and uninterested in the morning after
Embrace, like an unmoored ship in briny sea 
Kited to the soaring eagle;  no, I am not
The anchor you want, just a journey’s stop  

As you slip out under wrinkled bedcovers,
Hurriedly putting on your clothes,
You don’t say goodbye, just a glance
To me, yes me, whose arms cradled your rest
And whose lips bloomed your music,  until

You hear it strong and lusty to stir
Your restless limbs for another adventure,
New lands to conquer, far and away

Before the door closes, your gaze is on 
The faraway blue, and I, 
Don’t make a move to stop you 

Author's note:   Because it is very cold and minus 14 today; and I would rather be in bed.   Smiles.   Posted for D'Verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - every Tuesday starting at 3pm EST.   

Poetry form:   Aubade - is a morning love song (as opposed to a serenade, which is in the evening), or a song or poem about lovers separating at dawn. Some aubades are bittersweet, some are yearning, and others are mere proddings to awake.  Thanks to Grace of Real Toads for this poetry form.  Linking up as well ~

picture credit:  here

Monday 2 January 2012

Gently weeps

the morning dusk embrace me
warm like your hand on my bosom 

i hear your restful sounds on my side
as i gaze out the cloudless grey sky 

not for the first time, i ponder on white sea shell,
and faded beach picture tucked away in small box

remnants of another day, another place 
in time, makes me weep gently

i wonder if you know why i don't play  

the guitar anymore 

Posted for Poetry Jam:   Based on Santana's While my guitar gently weeps 
Shared for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   OpenLinkNight - Monday

I don't play the guitar; but the sounds are beautiful and made me write a melancholy poem.

picture credit:  here