Crumpled paper, and other short poems.


Walking the fine line
Between glamour and
Sobriety .. taking care not
To fall between the
Cracks .. not to believe
In the darkness of the
Daylight alone,
Away from the glitter
Of champagne cocktail nights,
Designer jackets,
Tastefully-torn jeans
And uncomfortable shoes.
The music must not stop;
Shine the camera on me
Just a little bit longer. See:
I am setting the pace,
Flaunting a fashion statement.
Synthetic is but a natural
Reaction against reality.
Just give me my moment.
A self-made idol;
Cliches spat out and
Yes, I could be a star.
What .. my name?
I am just part of the
Rhythm, the lights are
My melody against the
Night of glittering glam.
A torn off piece of
Average sparkling
Against the annals of
History and the


An overturned glass;
red wine rushes
across the tabletop.
I let it run over
The edge and stain
My off-white carpet,
Knowing that it will
Forever remain a
Signature of our
Kiss of passion;
A reminder of a
Moment of forgetfulness
And a time when
I had you ..
Under my skin.


Crumpled paper.
Edges blood-stained
From paper cuts –
Ridges of emotion
Desperately trying to
Conceal the words
Of love that were
Never meant to be
Written for all posterity;
But merely muttered under
My breath in a moment
Of mindless passion.


So sweet
are your suggested promises.
My stranger.
My unobtainable
moment of passion.
You coax me;
you cast me aside.
We can only have each other
in our leap-frog dreams:
both out-of-sync and yet
totally – oh so totally ..
in syncopation.
The relentless fantasy is more
Than the sum of reality’s
Individual parts.
I see you everywhere;
In the gait of strangers ..
In my memories.
Beginning from the
Waist down ..
Easing toward the toes
And then quickly
Darting upwards
To a fleeting and
Photographic flash
Of your insignificant face.
My stranger.
My passion.
My stranger…
So sweet.


norwegian haiku –
salmon in a sushi roll;
exotic and fresh.


the mind is quite a
beautiful thing – until
one begins to lose it.


seventeen random syllables
don’t always add up
to a haiku.


Gyrating, pulsating rhythms
From stores, restaurants and bars
Echo the collective chaos in
The streets of Thamel.
Enticing .. pushing .. egging on
Passersby and pedestrians who
Dance and wander up and down
Evercrowded streets and alleyways;
Continuously sidestepping
The endless stream of
Taxis, rickshaws and peddlers.
Everyone is forever on the
Lookout for personal contact and
The first economic gain of the day.
The exoticism of spirituality
Blended with indigenous capitalism
Encaptures even the most
Unwitting novice almost
Immediately upon arrival.
Religious shrines interspersed
Among beggars and sellers
Of Thangkas, books, Tiger balsam,
Clothing, jewelry, teas, Internet services
And remnants from the Hippie era.
Kathmandu is a living organism –
Always expanding and contracting,
Like a vagabond lotus blossom
Navigating with both aimlessness and intent
On a rushing mountain stream.
It is the modern trance of Buddha ..
Welcoming the uninitiated with
Open arms, and yet constantly
Confirming that life is not so easy for
Those without prior experience.

“Namaste! Where are you from?!!”

– all poems copyright Adam Donaldson Powell, and all previously published.

(Images: “Crumpled paper” (oil painting), and all photographs by Adam Donaldson Powell)

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