Bobbi Sinha-Morey


Forgiving The Past

The rain comes down
and forgives the past
now that my father
has gone, his lake
house empty. It stands
there without shade
or gentleness; no one
stays there for very
long anymore. Old
pictures are found
that had been hidden
away, and the echo
of words peck at
my memory. Every
day the invasion of
sunlight is cold on
my skin. Hoarse
morning cries
escape from birds,
their pleas aimed
at the sky and only
I listen. This house
is hungry to be
lived in.

Where Thistles Grow
My abandoned home
is silent as dirt and
dead branches from
trees litter the porch
floor. This is where
thistles grow. Now
only feral cats visit
my home and the
wind is so cold.
Once I dug a hole
for my calico,
Cyclops, over eight
years ago. Patches
of my memories
burn at the edges,
and still I can picture
myself hiding behind
the panes when my
mother came home.
Over the past years
that it's been empty
flies inhabit every
decayed room like
a nest and stubborn
rats that have gnawed
their way through
the walls have nowhere
to go. The front door
is tied up in shadows.

Web Of Light
Alone and uncertain
in my small room
evening has hushed
the feathered ways
and the moon has
left its web of light
on my window.
I see myself reflected
in the dark and the
wrinkled, white skin
of my hands. I live
in the greyness where
the sun doesn't shine
and all that is left
are the acrid lungfuls
of a north wind to
breathe in. In the
space of my house
I listen to stories
the walls have
swallowed and,
with them, doors
that once were
closed now crumble

Copyright 2012
Bobbi Sinha-Morey


Bobbi Sinha-Morey is a reviewer for the online magazine Specusphere and a poet. Her poetry has appeared in places such as Pirene's Fountain, Bellowing Ark, Gloom Cupboard, Houston Literary Review, Falling Star, and Sage Trail, among others. Her latest book of poetry, Crystal Wind, is available at and her website is located at