Today the angels arrived to receive your broken body and,
They placed you upon this peace train to take you home again.

Your non-violent mission for freedom will breathe past eternity,
Because the proverb reminds us… “you cannot cover the sun with one hand”

“Even if I am crushed into powder, I will embrace you with ashes” Liu Xiaobo

Stark crow chortle
Through umber forest sprinkled with golden portals
Within blackberry rows -
To touch creations morning glow
To meld open grass with a waning moon
To discern tears from rain
Addiction , dominion from pain
Wrapped in blue blankets
In honeysuckle crown
Oakdale maidens , Port Lake dancers
Pine straw slowly drowns
Where life and death abound
Where a thousand songbirds mingle
with a thousand woodland , Summer sounds* ...

I write when my chest gets tight and it feels like I can’t breathe
And for (what feels like eternity) everything I’ve worked so hard to keep secret comes

crashing.
down.

Imagine being in a wave pool, going deeper than you knew you should and getting knocked under,
and considering the possibility

maybe

that you might not come back up for air;
now imagine that feeling everytime you open your eyes.


Poetry about happiness?

I’m sorry, I can’t help you there.

Riding the cusp of Summers solstice
around the Ring of Brodgar
where ancient hands set a stone circle
we hold hands and dance
Summers wild flowers in turf and hair
the colours of what the Earth brings forth
beautiful fragility for a season
and we children of the soil and stone
ride the cusp of Summers longest day.

Where the river abandons herself to the creek
and the mudbank is cratered with crabclaws
waits the old man.

He doesn't know his years
but his ears are a sonic gift
catching the tonal variations of tides
seemingly for eons
evolving with the mangrove map
into a flawless tracker
of how far the moon would recline
for ***** to be holed out
and what shoreline the water would touch
before the shrimps starlight driven
make a beeline for the net.

I encountered him once
in the absurdity of a time
when I was high
and he lowly crouching
was making art by the creek.

Who was the poet
I could never tell.