Jesus, why am i like this?
Why does nostalgia run
Through my veins like
It should be there,
If the feeling leaves,
I would probably miss
It too.

is it curious that we spare our souls
through poetry,
but remain a closed book to our "family"?

In creeping fog
of wintry night:
My eyes are clogged.
Billows of blight.

Dull cataracts
veil antique lamps,
gun cotton tracks,
pale wreaths of damp.

Yet though here loom
dun brooding hulks
of cold stone gloom
in misty sulk

the lamps shine forth
and shall not fail
’til dark fades north
and pulls the veil.

As stars move they trace poems in the sky
constellations of rhymes ethereal.
Many poets look to the Earth for inspiration,
to trees, ocean and meadow flowers.
Yet at night I gaze up at the night sky
and bring my children home.