Poetry

Fruit

In a garden where the mist still clings, the apple’s blush, a ruby grin, and pears that hum soft autumn songs, all turn sweet in the light of morning. The orange peels, a citrus

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

In the mist of a half‑lived Capital of adventure, Indiana Jones, bowler hat perched on head, Pondered the relic that tails the brave and the treacherous, A quest that led him cross‑facing his

A Clockwork Orange

A Clockwork Ontario? (A Poem in the Tongue of the Thames) In the soot‑strewn back alleys of a Coventry‑grade future, where the road‑signs blink in a neutral‑colour glare, a lanky lad strides—blue‑milk-faced,

All About Eve

All About Eve – a quiet love‑letter to destiny, To the woman who masquerades beneath bright stage light, Her fingers trace the script as ink bleeds in her dream— In every wink, the

Snatch

Snatch In the back‑streets of a city that never sleeps, where the lamplight flickers like a candle in a forge, the word “snatch” drips through the alleys— a hiss of steel, a flash of

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