Unlatch the shutters of thought,
let the quiet pour in;
Let the world’s noise drift like a tide beyond reach.
If questions rise,
keep them folded in silence
let patience teach.

The day will come when the heart speaks without sound,
when the smallest truth stands clear as a flame.
So open the mind and hold back the tongue,
yet feel all the same.

I never set out to be a poet.
This was not a path I chose
it was the one I stumbled into
when my thoughts grew too heavy to carry
and my soul began to collect
the weight of years
like seabirds nesting on a lonely island,
like fur seals waiting out the endless storm.

I began writing as an escape,
a quiet place to spill the thoughts
that rattled in my head and ached in my heart.
Over time, it became my shelter
though no shelter is without its storms.
There are always those
who find reason to rain on your parade.

In the beginning, I was alone here.
And I was fine with that
for my thoughts were mine,
untouched, unshaped by anyone else.
But now, I am blessed
to hear the voices of strangers
who pause to read my words,
who leave behind their kindness,
their praise,
or simply a silent understanding.

I never wrote for applause
I wrote to build a fire
from the logs that surrounded my life
in a forest full of dead trees.
I wrote to clear the rot,
to drag out the fallen,
and to replant living roots.
I wrote to channel out new streams
from the clogged, muddy banks of my mind,
to let fresh waters flow
that in time will turn into flowing rivers
where once only stillness and decay remained.

Poetry became the soil where I planted
what I thought I had lost
feeling, connection, the fragile spark of hope.
And the people who read my words,
you who live in this realm of care and thought,
have given me more than I ever expected.
For as you read what I mine,
I read what is yours.
And sometimes I nod toward the sun and say,
See? I am not alone.

In your poems, I find echoes of my own wounds,
and in my own, some of you
find the reflection of your silent battles.
It is a strange comfort
like feeling the warmth of summer
brush against our skin
while snow still falls around us.

Poetry has allowed me to feel again
after years of neglect,
both from others and, far worse, from myself.
It is one thing to be locked in a room
and know you are trapped
it is another to walk the open world
and feel nothing at all.

We poets, I think,
often come to this land empty-handed.
We bring only the weight of our journeys
scars, rejections, brokenness,
the long nights of feeling worthless or unseen.
We come from the unknown to the unknown,
but somehow, we find each other here.

And in that meeting,
poetry gives us something
greater than gold or silver
it gives us belonging.
It gives us the chance to be understood,
if only for a heartbeat.

The path of a poet is not an easy one.
It begins with a few words,
or a flood of many,
that seem to mean little at first.
But as we walk in the shade of each other,
and in the sunlight of those who came before us,
we grow into something greater than ourselves.

I know I will not live forever
but I hope my words do.
I hope they find their way into the hands
of someone who needs them,
long after I am gone.
That, to me, is enough.

Sometimes it’s okay to live a quiet life,
or find that still spot even when you’re in the middle of a crowd.
Sometimes you’re just meant to be alone
that’s where some of the most real, meaningful moments happen.

It’s not forever—just what you need.
The conscious mind and the body
different but tied tight,
like two parts of the same whole.

Philosophers have struggled to understand this,
how the mind, that thing without space,
talks to the body that takes up space.
Hunger, thirst, passion, pain
show us the mind and body aren’t just separate,
they’re linked deep inside us,
working together,
sometimes quietly, sometimes loud.

So when you sit with your loneliness,
remember it’s not just emptiness
it’s the mind and body syncing,
learning from each other, healing, growing.

Love doesn’t come when you’re running from yourself
it arrives when you’re whole,
when your mind and body find their peace.

So trust the silence, sit with it,
because in that quiet, you become real.
more people will enjoy your company
when you learn to enjoy your own.

I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
you’d best step back.
I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
and it won’t take your crap.
I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
it’s tuning up to sing.
I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
and it’s ready to sting.

This bee is sick of it
no value for money,
each bite costs more
but fills less of the tummy.
Every shelf’s a con,
every packet’s a cheat,
cutting corners,
stealing meat from the meat.

What kind of world
puts profit before need?
Where greed is the harvest,
and we’re just the seed.

Look at you
corporate swine.
You’ve turned the good wine sour,
poisoned the bread,
and smiled as we choke
on the lies you’ve fed by the hour.

You wrap it in glossy packaging
that costs more than what’s inside.
You sell us a promise,
but truth? That you hide.

If you could slip in poison
to save a good buck
you’d do it,
grinning,
and push your **** luck.
Then feign surprise
“Oh, we didn’t know!”
while your profits rise
from the puppet show.

It’s like your “medicine” that heals
but maims.
“Take this pill for your headache,” you say,
“but it may cause blindness,
baldness,
or death someday.
Insomnia, itching,
your manhood might quit
but hey, the headache’s gone,
so that’s worth it, isn’t it?”

If the law didn’t chain you,
you’d hide those side effects too
crammed in fine print,
folded so tight
the font itself would fight your sight as it already do.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I’m the bee today.
And I’m here to say
there’s no love in your work,
just poison in the play.

You know the harm,
but keep your mouth shut,
while stockholders
pocket the cut.

It’s daylight robbery
clear as glass to the blind.
Greed in broad daylight,
looting humankind.

So
when do we say, Enough is Enough?
When do we rise from the grind,
and tell you we’re tired of bluff
of bleeding our wages
for trash in a package,
for lies in a label,
for crumbs on a table?

No, Mr. Corporate *****
we’re not your game.
And if you still have a conscience,
you should learn the word shame.

One language connects the world

Two languages create confusion

Multiple languages lead to war.

From fire-lit caves to marble halls of Greece,
the tongue has spun its thread through war and peace;
each line a seed, each word a fire-forged blade,
to carve the truth no tyrant’s hand can fade.

The ancients claimed that verse was breath of gods,
a bridge from mortal mud to golden sods;
it shapes the air, it bends the mortal ear,
turns grief to stone and love to something clear.

It bears the whispers, secrets wrapped in rhyme,
a message crossing borders made by time;
the Greeks called it the breath of gods and madness,
a sacred chaos—beauty wrapped in sadness.

The pen becomes a loom where thought is sewn,
in silk of metaphor and blood of bone;
it lifts the weak, it chills the tyrant’s might
and gives a voice to throats once choked with stone and blight.

We write to burn a map of time’s vast sea,
to bind our ghosts, to name what yet may be;
to paint the beats beneath the human skin,
and catch the storms that rage too deep within.

For poetry is a secret, mirror, flame,
it crowns the nameless, gives the lost a name;
it tears the veil between the now and then,
and calls the dead to walk again.

From ink to tongue, from ear to eye,
it teaches how to live before we die;
no single truth, but many, woven tight,
a human lantern in this endless night.

They keep no jealous watch,
nor plot to cross each way.
He walks in robes of gold at dawn,
she drapes in silver’s sway.

He drinks from drifting clouds,
warm hands in mist and flame;
she whispers to the scattered stars,
and calls them each by name.

The stars are patient eyes above,
that glimmer, blink, and know
they watch when sun comes flooding in,
and when the moon must go.

They share the sky like quiet friends,
passing in gentle turn;
no envy in their changing light,
no shadowed wish to burn.

If only we were made the same,
to share this earth in peace
no wars to scorch, no hearts that break,
no cries that never cease.

To look above and learn their way,
how harmony is spun
to move with love through all our days,
as moon and stars and sun.