A vivid imagination
is good for the soul
It makes you funny,
makes you feel whole
Ideas on ideas
minute after minute,
Make believe so real
you feel like you're in it

I wasn’t born a poet,
but your silence turned into verses
in the pauses between your laughter
I never meant to memorize your face—
yet it lives behind every closed eyelid
tender as the hush before a kiss.

You wore the rain like a sari of stars
and when you looked back that one time
I forgot my name.
Your anklets were verses
my heart dared not write—
too sacred, too soft
too much like something I'd ruin
by touching.

I never knew love
until it sat beside me
on a red bicycle
hair flying
as if time could be outpaced
by innocence.

I never wrote a line before you
But now I write in the rhythm of your leaving
And every rhyme I never learned
now aches in the shape of you.

I wasn't a poet—
not until you looked at me
like I was worth remembering

And now when they ask me
why the moon feels closer
when I speak your name
I only smile and whisper—
"I am not a poet
But oh beautiful one
Ever since I saw you
I have started writing poetry."


Erennwrites

I often cannot sleep in the deep
of night these days of late
when whispers of your memories
Rustle the pages of my mind
Until the world feels up-side down
hobbling along on a single foot
epitomizes sensations of art
meant to be shared by you
so I pretend to write and paint
playing at art as a child playing at life
whether calling it “house” or “family”
matters not when none of the actors
live in these cards
If only we could re-draw
would I hold your love in my hand
in another round of life?

when you trim your ***** and your mustache with the same pair of scissors
when you hand over your entire paycheck to the bartender of doom and glee
when you write a bounced check at the grocery store
when you sleep with a girl who isn’t clean
when you’re young, lost, broken and poor
when your childhood runs hard and your luck runs out
when your best friend is dead and your other friend is ******* your girl
when your dog sleeps in the afternoon and dreams of the neighborhood *****
when your nutrients gets replaced with Xanax bars over the one who just left
when your tired eyes meet the brick & mortar of strenuous labor
when the smile is so fake that it appears genuine
when you go all in on someone you weren’t 100% sure of
when you wait on bleeding knees for the unreliable god
when you bet on the boxer that crashed to the canvas
when the interest is high and the banks are closed and the creditors don’t care about grace periods
when you understand very little and you expel a whole lot
when the cord of anxiety strangles your very essence
when you turn out to be just as everyone expected

don’t worry

it’ll all turn around

and find you again

someway

somehow.

Why don't the heart and mind
speak the same language?

Is it because-

the mind matures
and
the heart remains a child?

When Marco Tardelli scored
In the final
Against the Germans in 82
It was like something
Not seen before
Or since too

A kinetic miracle displayed
And I'm not talking about the goal
More to do with miracles
And the nature of the soul

Something extraordinary happened
And it's still frozen in time
Where one mans essence
And the universe entwined

It is the celebration
That still lives in the air
A being stripped
Of all presence
And dull earthly care

He went off like a rocket
To whence he knew not where
He sprinted to the bench
Then hither
Then there

His team mates couldn't catch him
And they really tried
Old Marco carried off
On the crest
Of some unstoppable tide

Eyes bulging
Tears streaming
Screaming
GOL!
GOL!
GOL!
His arms jalisticating
As the pitch he fast roamed

Of course he gets asked about that night
By all that he meets
Says he has no memory
Of when his feet were so fleet

Except

His entire life flashed before his eyes
He said he felt just like someone
Who knows they will die
Maybe his pineal flooded his skull
Perhaps the frequency of creation
Stirred his hot chemicals

A true uniqueness
Of joy unbounded

What were the odds?

In a true Bukowskism

He was perfect laughter

He was alone with the gods.

a swept mind
silence kind balm

calmed
peaceful

nature speaks
with song and dance

a rattle and drum
meadow flowers spun

a spider in her web
stealth and skill

the poets tongue
a poets thrum.

old bloke in the pub says
he’s drunk on the unfulfilled hopes
of his youth
but in truth it’s the scotch