The influx of emotions
        and their ebb
                      and flow
swirl like a cyclone within me
I stand upon the cliffs,
                      hair blowing
                                mind rolling
into nuances
and languages
existing beyond words
 as each feeling whirls
                         and melts
into the other
     until they rise like birds
Around me,                      
each one takes the stance
                     of a miniature kite
attached to my limbs
pulling me this way
                                 and that
Yes, I know that our emotions
 are as rivers,    
                        rushing through
our banks
           soaking the essence
                                of our beings
              with fresh coolness
and alternately,
where it meets sea,
brine in searing tears                  
I know the stillness of my
               own soul, placid as a
                             rock in a typoon    
     yet sometimes
          unable to shake off
the heaviness of algae
it can almost suffocate
and to get through its
            dank seaweed density
          I shall just envision lightness
in the aviary form
              of hummingbirds
or kingfishers…yes, even soaring eagles
tugging on my heartstrings
lifting me up and away
into the proverbial clouds
so I can just
                curl up
         into fetal position
and let myself be
                      gently rocked
                             until the storm
                       blows over

The rhythm of my poems is my broken heart beat
To express my agony is what I seek
No formal training have I had
It all comes out the good and the bad

The ink is my blood, I let it soak my page
Sometimes it comes out as rage
Sometimes it's just sad, and tugs at the heart
But every single poem, of me is a part

Sometimes the ink runs that is my tears
I tell my story, I let you look at my fears
Sometimes my inks sticky that is my blood
Sometimes my poems are like a flood
Sometimes the inks salty that is my sweat
My poems some will not get

Sometimes my poems scare
But I don't care
My poems my heart and my life
It's always been full of strife

I'm not one to tell you everything will be fine
And in doing so I'm being kind
You read enough of my writings
You'll see that I'm fighting

One day at a time, I write it all down
In my poems my life is found
It's all on the page
My agony, my fear, and my rage
If my poems make you feel something
Then it was worth the suffering

I miss the future
when, if I wanted to see you
I just beamed myself from my dark room
to your waiting arms
we walked for hours along the coastline
where California use to be
of-course our feelings changed a bit
when we learned we were not truly of this earth
but brought from another dying planet
some several thousand years ago
but it was still so much better than the now
when we ****** our own presidents
and sacrifice lives in wars that we start

an old spirit who I passed on the trail of tears
spoke to me in my sleep
he told me that the future was only a dream
and to prepare myself for the end
I asked him how
and he turned back and said
'pray to the souls that your people have vanquished
that they forgive your sins
you spit in the face of mother earth
and cut her breath to make room for cows and pigs
so that you may gorge
you sacrifice your brothers in the name of false Gods
and your leaders fatten themselves off the sweat of their own
with no regard for all man's lifeblood
you took this precious gift and threw it away
and now
even in the face of death
you squabble like spoiled children
ignoring the inevitable
so pray that your children will not face the final day
for it will be fire'
and with that he turned and
I awoke...

****...8:30
late for work!

Spilt black ink
covers the pages
blocking stylized
letters
recorded
underneath

Trying to
remember
my best
while I sit here
writing
when I'm
missing you
to
death

I don't believe its
coincidence
when we dance
our eyes
are perfectly
aligned

And when
we kiss,
our lips
lock
like two
elegant
puzzle pieces