There were
20 days.
Under silent autumn
golden April spreads a subtle light.
(Southern season)
They were missing:
4 days (ok, maybe 6 or 5).
Under a delicious nap rug
poems dreamt of floating dust.
(Southern vagrancy, I didn’t write a damn word)
There are culprits:
a bunch of days found guilty.
Under the inner court
my alter-ego stamps her judgment.
(Western psycho thing)
8, 10, 15 & 17 no poem was to be seen
under the InNaPoWriMo
nor 20, 21, 22, 23
in my tag cloud bin.
(Northern precise accountancy)
16 times came here
a spelling spell.
Under a whispering presence
poems were born this spirited month.
(Eastern mystical touch)
Just then life jumped in
under the rhythm of its tambourine.
Hospitals, blood donation,
hard school meetings,
unexpected family fights.
No open portal,
no poetry
no exit.
Just
one
thing:
a
new
me.
(No South, no North, no East, no West…
we’re all facing our destiny)
amararama, the spirited u-turn 