Maybe we write to
make ourselves feel better

about the pain,
heartache
and every other
torturous infliction
that gnaws at our insides

Maybe we write to
survive the torture

because,
instead of screaming on the underground
or crying at dinner
we wait for the confines of paper
or thumbs to Notes.

Maybe we write
because we know
nothing else

isn't that ironic?

We know nothing.
Maybe that's why we write.

He's gone.
That's it.
You loved too hard,
Cared too much,
Rambled too long.

He's gone.
And that's it.

WRITING MY BROTHER

I create a world
of words for you
to believe in

see I give you
verbs
you walk...you talk

I surround you with
the necessary nouns
sustain you with

adverbs and adjectives
split
an infinitive

I adjust the past
make it last
longer than

a future could be
change my mind
change time

tinker
with the
what-could-be

here I have us
a cloud of words
emanating from

our Christmas faces
making angels
the newest snow

on the tip of our tongues
on the tip of our tongues
or noses

awed by an Aurora Borellis
my breath
mingled with yours

a star glows
trapped
in a window pane

as if it only
shivers there
a prisoner of itself

now I change
the weather
see...it's summer

autumn whatever
I want it
to be

I reach for another
the next word
another page and

another page
until my pen
runs out of words

leaves you alone
upon a page
the blankness
terrifying

"Brother
mine
...Brian!"

"Shhh. . !"
Death admonishes
". . .enough!"

as I try to
keep you
alive for ever

*

I wrote this on the eve of the New Year....4,000 miles from anywhere in the middle of the Atlantic...emotionally it was like that too.

The Willow Blooms
Under A Silver Moon
The Birds Fly Off To Heaven.

I gaze at the stars
I begin to fall upwards-
Reunion at last.

Your purrs, soothing .
Your whiskers, fluttering.
Your cheeks , rubbing.
Your noises, calming.
Your scratches , healing.

Oh I wonder ,
To not be for you ,
I might had laid alone .
To not be for you ,
I to question god.
To not be for you ,
I to cease existing .
As you gave me meaning ,
A meaning for all .

Oh my beloved cat ,
You hanged on tight .
So to make it right,
I hang onto you.
How you hang onto me.

A dove flies over
the stone angel...

feather drifts down.

Haiku by a friend
who also commented...

dove flies over
The stone angels uplifting eyes
A feather drifts down


Soul Survivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc