I occasionally write poetry and here is a recent example…

The Riddle of the Louvre

Walking alone through rues,

Full of locked, cooing couples,

Music from the cinema still swelling inside,

She stops and sits on a stone bench.


With a flick of her finger,

A slight sizzle,

She holds her little fire.

She breathes in,

the ember lives,

She sees it dance in the grand, glass pyramid beside her

She breathes out

And through her smoky breath,

two black eyes stare back.


Large orbs, rimmed with dark lashes,

Swallow darts of golden light.

Shards of black hair slice

The lit panes of Kepler’s triangles.


He is a Hindu,  

Orphaned by the Sri Lankan civil war,

Adopted by Parisians.

He confesses a childhood of loneliness,

And un-belonging.  


She is a Hindu,

Itinerant, nomadic, homeless

A child of Indian diplomats.

She had a childhood of loneliness,

And un-belonging. 


His inky eyes swallow her 

She gasps

When she sees the book in his hand,

And she takes out her own copy,


What a petrifying coincidence she says,

We are in the forbidden world of sudden parallels he replies.

They chuckle and snigger together,

He stands and holds out his hand–


There is no other end to such a night

Beauty will be convulsive

We are meant to be one he says,

Before sunrise.


She titters nervously…or will not be at all!

Coitus with a perfect stranger?

Is that always the end?


Glittering and obscure,

The blazing pyramid winks.


It is the future rising from ancient mire

Resurrected by golden ratios and Diamant glass,

Framed by steel rods, unifying all,

It is universal enlightenment.


Glittering and obscure,

The blazing pyramid blinks.


It is just another monumental tomb,

Clear panes that hum for the Apocalyptic beast,

A siren that sings the colossal vanity of man.

It is imperial might.


She is not ready to be a pyramid

She is inside the old museum wings,