✍🏻 To My Love

  We were oh so cute
  Hand in hand over the moon
  Now I‘m destitute.

  We were on cloud nine
  Together in harmony
  Now alone I pine.

  Janus faced, no not her
  A truly open book, this is her
  Woeful, no that ain’t her
  A positive person, this is her
  Horrible, no not her
  Enabler of happiness, that’s her
  Right now, I’m wanting her.

End Game?

again, history repeats.

Some have at first for wits, then poets pass’d.  // Turn’d critics next, and proved plain fools at last.


    A longing I felt
    for far too long.
    One that had my
    soul dream of
    comforting it’s
    blistering frost,
    with no more
    than wrapping
    itself around
    your warm body.

— Mustafa Tatan

From America with Love

we only live once, right?

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear

no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Penned by: Edward Estlin “E. E.” Cummings (or as he liked to write it: e e cummings), an American poet and essayist. He dabbled in the erotic genre (this/I like^).

Although Cummings could and did write traditionally styled verse including sonnets, much of his work did not conform to established poetic styles and structures. Cummings experimented radically with form, punctuation, spelling and syntax; and invented compound words to create a highly individualistic style of expression (this too I;m liking a lot).

From Russia with Love

we only live once, right?

Farewell, my good friend, farewell.
In my heart, forever, you’ll stay.
May the fated parting foretell
That again we’ll meet up someday.
Let no words, no handshakes ensue,
No saddened brows in remorse, –
To die, in this life, is not new,
And living’s no newer, of course.

Penned by: Sergei Yesenin (1895–1925), a Russian poet. After writing the above eight lines, he took his own life.

This Anodyne Tome

Fettered, febrile & formulaically forlorn…

a rant is Brewing:
Frantic, frenetic and as pointless as patriarchal pride.
a rant is Emboldening:
Uncouth, unhindered and as cruel as chemical castration.
a rant is Wending:
Curt, callous and as cutting as a talent show host.
a rant is Advancing:
Knifelike, knowledgable and as tiresome as suburban conventions.
a rant is Raging:
Eviscerating, exposing and as dogeared as orthodox faith.
a rant is Ending:
Rabid, rambled and as incandescent as ice.

The Unknown Citizen

Just another number…

(To JS/07 M 378
This Marble Monument
Is Erected by the State)

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be

One against whom there was no official complaint,

And all the reports on his conduct agree

That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint,

For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.

Except for the War till the day he retired

He worked in a factory and never got fired,

But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.

Yet he wasn’t a scab or odd in his views,

For his Union reports that he paid his dues,

(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)

And our Social Psychology workers found

That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.

The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day

And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.

Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,

And his Health-card shows he was once in a hospital but left it cured.

Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare

He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Installment Plan

And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,

A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.

Our researchers into Public Opinion are content

That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;

When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went.

He was married and added five children to the population,

Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation.

And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education.

Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:

Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

— W. H. Auden

A Place in Time

Tic-Toc Goes the Circadian Clock

An unknown person gazes over a mended wall, digging deep into their soul, they wonder if yonder, the trees really are greener.

Between two trunks is a nightingale lodged in her nest. She sings seductively, but who’s here to hear, feel and follow?

A sun dial sits alone in a well manicured garden, unobtrusively it tells of the shortening of time: ‘Summer will soon be Fall.’