The shadow
will never
stop following
you

no matter how cold
it presence
as it embraces you
one hand on
your abdomen
it slows the flesh
with inward stillness.

it shares
an eye with you
like greek witch
from a story.
a kiss within a cup
a vision splashes from
the eyelid.

So you can see
in the shade
of its presence...
clinging on
my poor shadow
afraid
of my
friendship with the sun.
shadow
do not fear
love is not forgotten
no matter the depths and shades
of darkness may surround.

For their always
is a comfortable dark and room
in the humbleness
of my sewn
mismatched pockets
that i unworthy offer…

Such Fruit
is according
to its season

To Early
the fruit
drags on
the lower branches
as the stars reflect
on its waxy rind.

To Late
the remaining fruit
resides to high
in the upper branches.
Winter is coming
and only
the high flying birds
can drink
from the saucers
of the moon.

The Secret
to eating its fruit
at its proper season
as it grows on limbs of the tree
and deploy your talents
and you may
as you consume
and receive the gift
too eat from the tree.

Imagine
        A poem

                Is a small room

                       With words

                                 Walking in,

                                               And out the doors.



Periods are door knobs,

And symbols closing doors.  

Stanzas balance beneath

the blank expanses
In cycles.



The unites

compacts & splashes



cascading

Into the

pond of

consciousness

    at the end.



The goal

Is to

reach homeostasis

Of the heart

  & the inward eye.



For Imagination is  inking

a strange cosmos

one letter

& blank space

   at a time.



Poem makes

It home among words

    that It nests in.



What is,

              Is spoken

                     Upon the paper

                                 Of poets.

The Knees
never forget
the prayers
at the stairs
of memory.

In the afterlife
an erstwhile
lover
flys forever
like a crane
in the limited spaces
of my heart.

i step among
    the stone gnomes
    and cement toadstools.
    Footsteps my
    only eloquence.

    Not for tomorrow
    For the frozen moons
    in the stables
    of my imaginary calendar.

    Not for
    yesterday.
    Where the leaves swirl
    In the currents
    Of memories.

    But for
    this present
    moment.
    frolic anonymous
    in my insignificance.

    The fruit of joy
    ripe
    at this moment
    in the silence
    of my simple tongue.

    Echoing out
    into
    the blessing
    of being forgotten
    as moths like time clocks
    keep
    precise the
    pacing of stars.

If any item
should retain
eldritch  potency
in this present age.

It would be
bacon.
wild magik
is released  
by the fat
contained
within its
thick sliced rind.

Glamor can be
released
in simple
domestic rituals.

All you need
is a pan
& a heat source.


Many magi
have reported
in secret books
about bacon’s aid
in seeing
the future.

When bacon cooks
within a  simple pan.
It sizzles
prophetic quatrains
of coming days,
and often is served
with well-cooked omens.

Seers
have reported
the auspicious energies
properly displayed
when bacon power
is properly
presented.

When the curl
of bacon
properly
interweaves
the tips of tongue…

For in
the   tingle
the taste bud
apprehends
the shape
of  infinite spaces;
where the future
is foretold
within
the chew
of inward knowledge.

For if the world
is a bell
ringing
in the emptiness
of a letter.

Words
Are the
rinds of
otherworldly fruit
swollen
in my throat.

Then what
creature, sprite
or, phantom?
rings the doorbell
and is gone.

when  i come
to scribble
the crumbs
of poems
upon an
empty porch
drinking moonlight.