Poetry

Oppenheimer

Oppenheimer’s Shadow In the desert’s blinking heat the gun‑metal sun swallowed White Mesa, while the night‑shrouded H‑rooke men whispered “There are no truths that lie behind a grill of ro‑blight.” He, who lectured

Some Like It Hot

Some Like It Hot The lanes are coppered in the moonlit tinge, London’s street lamps humming soft and low. Two hearts in brass and dream, a strange arrange – They turn a

Green Book

Green Book In springtime’s embrace, the page is locked in leaves of the earth’s own green, A parchment map that hums the quiet pledge of “Here on the road you’ll see.” Its ink,

The Wolf of Wall Street

In the glassy tower of London’s own skyline, a shadow slips past the bidding of markets, lean‑muscled whisper, a wolf in a vest‑and‑tie. He stalks the boardroom, his howls in the

Batch

The Batch In the quiet kitchen a stack of scones rises their golden skins a promise against the cold. The oven hums, a low‑melodic pace that devises each crumb a story that the heat

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