A practising self-memoir, recorded as an inconsistent logbook.
A poem seldom arrive clean.It comes in through the windowwith dust on its knees,carrying one cracked cup,one unpaid bill,one mother’s voice pressedagainst the wrong side of a door.It rarely ask for a desk.It sits on the floorbeside the bodyand begins taking attendance.Here is the throat,still functioning as a checkpoint.Here is the stomach,refusing citizenship.Here is the girl under the desk,
June 29, 2026, 05:45 AMThe trip was cancelled. The tickets vanished into the digital void, but the manager approved the leave anyway after yet another follow-up, leaving me stranded with an empty week and the heavy, stagnant air of this shabby little room. Oh, but not before telling me the last task I completed was half-wrong because she had given me the wrong details. She did not even have the
June 20, 2026, 11:55 PM - June 21, 2026, 03:50 AMThe ether is heavy tonight. Mortals call it twilight, but to me, it is the hour when the mask slips. I spent the afternoon whispering into the ear of a king. He has everything... wealth, lands, a loyal court. Yet, with just three words whispered during his feast: “They will forget”; I watched the wine turn to ash in his mouth. The slow creeping
June 18, 2026, 11:50 PM - June 19, 2026, 1:55 AMAs I lie on bed, tired and spent from working all day, I am trying to mold the heavy, exhausting weight in my chest into something beautiful, or at least something tangible. True to the spirit of my weblog deity, Oizys, the blank page feels like a faux-pas invitation, just like a mirror reflecting my own soul's quiet desolation. The name "Oizys
The first box had eight colorsand no instructions for grief.Red was for apples, they said,as if blood had not already invented itself?Red is:the notification I still haven't opened,the lipstick I wore like an alibi,the danger my mother taught me to notice before language.Yellow was the sun,as if jaundice, turmeric, caution tape,and old gods did not live there too?Yellow is:old turmeric under the
This Is Not a Walkafter Chagall’s La promenadeMarc Chagall, La promenade (The Promenade) (1918), oil on canvasThis is not a woman flying.This is not a man holding the wrist of his weather.This is not love,though love is often accused of such public misconduct.The green beneath them is not a field.It is not obedience pretending to be grass.It is not the ancestral courtyard where daughters learn
safety through uglinessthe phone cover shedsits tired skinwhile I eata sandwich late.hunger sits beside me,loyal as a dog,waiting for the commandto leave.I say stay.it stays.I say live.it looks away,like I am asking too much.~ Oizys.Word count: 44Written for dVerse Quadrille #248 – This One’s Gone to the Dogs By whimsygizmo on May 18, 2026.
19th May 2026. 00:35 AM.today, as i made a sandwich which i was supposed to make on sunday night, but monday night it is, i thought again about the strange violence of delay. not the cinematic kind. not the kind with music swelling in the background and a woman finally throwing open the doors of her house with one suitcase and a jawline sharp enough to cut patriarchy in half. no. the other kind.
It is Friday, May 15th, 2026.Five days since I wrote that all roads lead to rot, and unfortunately, the road has not developed better civic planning since then. It is still the same road, same potholes, same suspicious corner, same emotional drainage system clogged with old leaves, shame, salt, and things I should have said in 2017, 2019, 2021, yesterday, this afternoon, ten minutes ago. I would
One safety pin fastened to the inside of a wobbly long top.One phone charged to 63%, which is not enough, but is treated like faith.One friend who knows the cab number, the driver’s name, the route, and the exact hour to begin worrying.One lipstick that has outlived three men and two versions of the self.One packet of tissues.One packet of lies: I’m almost there. / My brother is waiting
A Room that Misremembers its WindowsIn the stitched room,the window does not promise escape.The window is not open.The window is performing openness.It offers a square of greenheld in place by patient lines.Outside, perhaps, there is weather.Inside, mother's old cloth has taken overthe duties of wall, curtain, garden, memory.Behind its green ribs,a pot of flowers rehearses springin a room that
The Bird Did Not FlyBy Tuesday morning, the cage had learned my name. It said it softly, in Ma’s voice, from the kitchen window where the caged parrot hung beside the basil. I had returned after twelve years, with a suitcase and no husband, which in our lane was worse than arriving with a corpse. Ma made tea. The parrot scraped its beak against the brass bars. “You can sleep in your old room,”
On Saturday, I am spiralling down the depression-anxiety-low-self-esteem trifecta again, with bouts of anger throwing my body around like it owes me something. I am not eating, not really, but then I down two bags of chips as if salt can fill a perpetual hole that I have created. It only accelerates the migraine, makes the room tilt, makes my stomach revolt until I am spinning and puking and
29/04/2026, 19:50 PMthe body being trapped in the presentThe shadows in this room have begun to whisper, mapping out a layout that defies Euclidean geometry. I have checked the door. It’s just a painted mural on cold concrete and the windows are only flickering screens showing a sunny day that never shifts, never changes. If teleportation were real, I’d be in a field of wild lavender right now,
The Fog Has My House KeysThe fog comes inlike it has been here before.Not dramatically.No doorbell.No throat-clearing at the gate.No screaming.No door-slamming.Just a soft trespassover the balcony railing,through the laundry clips,past the basil plantthat has seen too muchand says nothing.By midnight,the buildings lose their surnames.The streetlights becomesmall government officesprocessing
Names I Did Not Answer ToBy midnight,all my old selves had gatheredoutside the locked door.Restless came first,barefoot, carrying a suitcasefull of unsent apologies.Then Ebb Tide,who knew exactlywhen to leave a roomand make it looklike drowning.Desdemona wore white,not for innocence,but because grief stains betteron honest cloth.No Surrender laughedfrom the staircase,mouth full of thunder,heart
Bloom: Filed Under PendingTuesday arrived late,wearing Monday’s floral badge.I opened the promptlike unpaid mail.Inside: bloom.Garden bloom? No.Obedient marigold? No.More like funguson old grief:tender, suspicious,still choosing lightfrom the damp cornerwhere I had filedmyself underpending.~ Oizys.Word count: 44Written for dVerse Quadrille Monday: “Come Bloom With Me!!!” May 4, 2026.
1st May, 2026. 08:10 PM.Maureen has posted the final housekeeping note. Which means it is official now. April has been packed into boxes, the prompts have been swept from the floor, the links are still warm, the comment threads are still glowing faintly, and somewhere, thirty poems are lying around in my blog like guests who refused to leave before breakfast. Na/GloPoWriMo is over. Every year,
30th April 2026. 8:30 PM.It is a different kind of pain. The whole day I was so busy with work, I forgot today was the last day of April. In the few minutes I got between tasks, I scrolled past the same posts on social media: April is ending, May May is kind to us. And then, between one soft farewell to April and another, the news: the Gaza-bound Global Sumud Flotilla had been intercepted in
NaPoWriMo 2026 [April 30] Day ThirtyWell, it’s happened again. We’ve come to the last day of another National/Global Poetry Writing Month. We’ll be back tomorrow with a final featured participant and some housekeeping details, but in the meantime, congratulations to all who have made it to the end! And if your output has tapered off or been spotty — no worries! The best thing about Na/GloPoWriMo
29th April 2026. 9:57 PM.Tomorrow is the last day of NaPoWriMo. Last year, I remember writing a more openly heartfelt closing post. This year, I do not know yet what kind of ending this April will allow. It has been hotter, angrier, more interrupted, more crowded with news, rooms, bodies, windows, and small refusals. So I am preparing this tonight and leaving the door open for tomorrow’s mood to
NaPoWriMo 2026 [April 29]Day Twenty-NineHappy Wednesday, all, and happy penultimate day of National/Global Poetry Writing Month! Our featured participant for the day is Sunra Rainz, whose response to Day 28’s six-line-poem prompt reminds us to seize the day (and wear the dress). Today’s resource is The Poetry Exchange podcast. Each episode not only explores a different poem, it discusses why that
NaPoWriMo 2026 [April 28]Day Twenty-Eight Welcome back, all, for the twenty-eighth day of Na/GloPoWriMo. Today, our featured participant is the Poet Laureate of the Primitive Planets, which brings us a (gently) hysterical love poem in response to Day 27’s even-stanza-length prompt. Today’s resource is this short meditation by the poet Barbara Guest, on the tension between a poet’s desire to
NaPoWriMo 2026 [April 27]Day Twenty-SevenHappy Monday, everyone. I hope you’re feeling energized about your writing as we head into the final days of this year’s April challenge. Our featured participant today is What Rhymes With Stanza?, which brings us a quite feline response to Day 25’s ars poetica prompt. Today’s resource is The Writers Annex Online, which offers a variety of short, online
NaPoWriMo 2026 [April 26] Day Twenty-SixHello, everyone, and welcome back for Day Twenty-Six of National/Global Poetry Writing Month. Today, our featured participant is Jay Siegmann, whose response to Day 25’s rather complex prompt bring us metaphors for metaphor itself. Our resource for the day is the Commonplace podcast, which provides you with oodles of interviews with contemporary poets, as