Author: poetryfest

I am the pangolin–
quiet keeper of the underbrush,
born with my home
stitched into my back.

Not predator.
Not prey.
I belong to the hush between
jasmine bloom and fallen fruit,
to the hour when light
filters green
through the lace of Palash trees.

They flower without asking–
blossoms like small suns
tipping from branches,
painting the forest floor
in the language of fire.
Still, I move beneath them unseen.
A rustle. A shadow. A breath.

I live on bitterness–
ants and termites,
the hidden hunger
of soil’s soft machinery.
My tongue writes no songs,
only slow offerings
into silence.

I have no roar to give.
Only the art
of becoming smaller
when the world grows loud–
curling into a prayer
of bone and belief.

And the forest understands.
The coral vine does not shout.
The civet does not demand witness.
The turmeric glows quietly in the dark.

Sometimes I think
you’ve forgotten
how many things
live without needing to be seen.

But one day,
you may find yourself
beneath a gulmohar,
hand on its bark,
and wonder
why the stillness feels familiar.

It will be me–
the pangolin,
the gentle lesson
the wild once whispered
and you almost remembered.

I was praying to the God, saying:
“I love her the most, lord!
In turn, its heavenly, she loves me.
It is so beautiful that she is my life
I am blessed because she is my wife.”

But these days, I’m a bit confused
Not angry, as it’s between the twos
He hugs her, and kisses occasionally
Even sleeps with her on the same bed
Discarding me, as a stranger’s head.

He says: “It’s night, please stay away from us
You can come next morning, don’t make much fuss
Let me sleep with her and you go to your own bed”
And I am left with no choice but to agree with what he says
I then leave them together to sleep with instead;
I am telling you all the truth, not at all a myth.

Sometimes, he has secret stories to share
Sometimes would tell me, sometimes!
And sometimes wouldn’t even bother
Sharing chocolates and sharing rhymes
Not caring me much as he does to her
Given, if I don’t toe with their party lines.

He comes to me demanding
Only when she is not around:
“Oh dear, I am missing her
Let’s go, Let’s go, Let’s go
Please let’s go”, until found.

Even though I occasionally feel deserted
It’s his mother, I don’t feel disrespected
Good to see the bonding these two have
She’s a Chinese golden cow, he’s her calf
It’s how he ‘d learn to live in China as my son
In this unknown society, when I am gone

the sea does not speak in whispers
it throws tantrums.
salt-laced, fistfuls of wind
slap the faces of disobedient men.
jonah curls in the hull,
hugging silence like a second skin,
while the storm negotiates
with timber and guilt.

above, sailors cast lots like bones
reading the marrow of rebellion.
below, a prophet pretends
God’s breath didn’t burn
on his neck last night.

some are called to Nineveh
but detour to Tarshish
they say it smells like citrus and tithes,
they say the pews are fuller there,
that the altar shines
with imported incense
and microphone approval.

they forget:
God does not chase men with comfort,
He corners them with storms.

cleric, when did your mouth
become a chalice for strange fire?
when did your feet start dancing
to drums carved from ego?
did you not hear Him
in the thunder,
or did Tarshish sing louder?

you wear cassocks stitched with ambition,
oil slicked not from heaven,
but the leaking pipes of pride.
your prayers drip gold,
but angels weep in monochrome.
you call it ministry
but what you build is a merchant’s temple
where prophecy is priced per seat.

listen—
obedience is not glamorous.
Nineveh still smells of blood and rot.
but it is where God waits,
with fire in His eyes
and mercy behind His back.

the fish does not come
to punish. it comes
to carry you back
to the place you fled.
go,
while the sea still remembers your name.

go,
before the shipwreck becomes permanent.
before God stops calling
and starts replacing.

In the quiet shade of the pine tree, where colours are muted but bright and the sun drops in Komorebi light. The healing scent of pitch, fanning the air with an almost sweet smell, pleasing to the nose and cleansing the mind of yesterday’s woes. As the skies turn from blue to orange, birds return to their nests, and the night dew begins to fall.

In the shade of Pine,
Time ticks slowly – forever
Bird song fills the air

In the streets where cries echo and cry ,
For justice hides under the blanket of silence,
A voice roars out, brave and bold—
A cry for change long awaited

The names we call out, the lives we grieve,
Are no less than hashtags made in the past.
They were fathers, daughters, dreams, and light,
Now embarrassment and erasure set in stone and endless nights.

And we march forward, in rain or flame,
Holding our banners high, holding sacred names.
We speak about truths that some around us are hesitant to see
Because they come from a history or context that is painfully carved.

No justice? No peace?
Then we will raise our hands, walk up this hill.
With every step, with every breath,
We reclaim love in the face of fate, we honour death.

We DO NOT ask to stand on the shoulders of those who came before us.
We ask for equity and love, equity for justice, love for hearts.
Dignity for those whose voices are heard,
For dignity, for voices clear.

Black lives matter—not more, not less,
In a world that frankly needs to readdress the ridiculous amount,
Of stolen grace these past centuries.
For equity we fight for the right space.

So light the truth, and hold it high,
Let no truth quiver, let no hope die.
Let no pain go from soft whimpers to raucoused call,
We still believe.
We still rise.

A crescent emerged in the twilight
bidding adieu to the sun
welcoming the stars
that poked through the azure
one by one

Shot through the chest, it looked pretty grim
His world growing ever more dim
Sticky blood started to pool
Who knew the world could be so cruel

He reminisced about the past
It seems nothing ever lasts
He remembered all the mistakes he had made
Growing all the more afraid

Still so much to do, so many stories untold
He never got the chance to grow old
Did he do enough in his life, will he be remembered when he’s passed
He thought of the wealth he amassed

He had no warm memories, no one to put in a locket
Just the cold hard cash in his pocket
He still couldn’t buy comfort when he kicked the can
He died a billion dollars to his name, but still poorer than the average man

the brink of a nose, beckoning
fingers dampened with sweet vanilla extract
while the tongue regurgitates the bitter liqueur
venom of mama’s milk and cookies

the outreach of limbs, hankering tendons and all
this daddy’s girl of a claw machine, clambering for comfort
while the pupils of his eyes shrivel in withering sights
predator of papa’s unzipped mind

the grippling of pleasure receptors to that scarlett nectar
dimples rippling to orbs at the knees of euphoria
before her kiss takes your breath away for a second too long
cannibal of neon desire

the laying of your skin against mine, and
the shutting of those longing eyes, oh won’t you
let my fingers worm themselves into your soft ears, and you can
touch, and lust, and thrust, but never ever trust
this sleeptalk to leave you with
secrets that belong in daylight

your fingers peer into this peephole of a mouth
wander this pink welcome mat of soft and shallow buds, oh

please, won’t you do me a favor?

do not dare venture any farther into this tunnel
contorted and inflamed with antique imprints of screams
when your tracings slip from my gums
do not ask the secret to these sharp and jagged teeth

catch a whiff of decadence, carry no promise of spoonfuls

let my hands keep clean, reaching than clawing
for exhilaration be a craving, never a longing
set me free baby, won’t you promise me,
you’ll find another lady for this male fantasy.

The house remembers.
That’s what the old woman said
when she handed me the keys.
She looked at me
like she knew
exactly who I was grieving.
Exactly what I was trying to bring back.

It’s his house.
Was his house.
Ours, once,
before he disappeared into the kind of silence
you can’t call back from.

I came here
because something in me believed
he might still be waiting.
Not alive.
Just
here.

And maybe I was right.

At night, the bedroom smells like his cologne.

Not strong, just enough to stop my breath.
The record player spins without prompting,
playing the same vinyl
he played the day he said,
“This house has a heart, you know.”

The third step creaks.
Always the third.
He used to skip it.
I never told him I liked that sound.

Now, the house skips it too.

Sometimes I hear him calling my name.
It’s never loud.
Just behind me.
Or below me.
Or inside the walls
like he’s pacing
and waiting
and watching.

His clothes are still folded
where I left them.
But last week,
one of his sweaters was on the floor
like someone wore it
and changed their mind.

I saw him once.
Or something that looked like him.
By the mirror.
He didn’t move.
But his eyes were mine
and his mouth didn’t smile
the way I remember.

This house
knows I want him back.
And it’s giving me pieces
like scraps of a dream
stitched together
with grief
and something darker.

The house remembers him.
And now,
so do I.
Even the parts
I tried to bury.

But it’s not him,
not really.
It just wears his voice.
Wears his shape.
Wears my want
like a key.

And I think
it’s waiting for me
to stop noticing the difference.

She is looming over you like a false god,
your room a temple where all the dead girls pray,
clawing at the ceramic of their skin for divinity
leaking through the scraps.
If you were to pluck every scar from your skin,
uprooted from their field cloaked in bitter soil,
could you create a mural?
They’ll burn the crust of your youth
and carve from your ashes a martyr.
This place is a wasteland,
a silhouette marred in smoke,
but tonight the dim light sits flush against her face,
her laughter like the ocean is alive within her chest,
like bullets folded on her tongue;
something almost contemptuous in her gaze,
disdainful,
yet still prettier than any statue
you’ve ever defaced.
This charred touch is the only thing
the two of you can share, because after all,
how else can you hope to cradle
someone who does not want to be saved?