"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." - John Keating, Dead Poets Society (1989)

*As a child I loved you Mork, as an adult you taught me the fine line between laughter and despair.

I will scream into the void with you. Take my hand, let me calm your fears.I will weave my words into a shelter, a place of grace for your troubled heart.

Walk with me until the stars dim forever, until the sun implodes and only dust remains. I am here with you, there with you. Let my tangled thoughts be your remedy, your darkest dreams my salvation. Take my light, for I would rather walk in darkness unending than see the weight of sorrow on your pretty brow.

You are my privilege, my haven, my friend, this will always be, as long as there is breath I will use it to sing of my wonder at your strength and my joy at your existence.

If you believe in nothing else, I beg that you believe in me

twilight rain spatters
morse code of vitality
parched plant's s.o.s.

crescent moon ascends
with cheshire smile the night grins
darkness scoffs at us

a bedtime story*

In the distance stands a lighthouse
seeing all with cyclops eye
once a beacon, now a hollow,
dead in misted moonlit sky.

Proudly once she ruled the headland,
warning all of crag and shoal
trusted friend to salt scoured sea dogs,
smugglers caught within her glow.

Beauty lived as Keepers mistress
'till one day her love did bloom
walking clifftops with her lover
brought her ending, far too soon.

Bloodied, torn by cliff face ragged
screaming for the life she craved,
Beauty held her rounded belly
As fury deep hit waters grave.

Beauty stands alone in darkness
there above the tempest sea
bloated souls of those who perished
now her only company.

 When the moon is high above us
wrapped in rags and witching stare
Beauty stands atop the catwalk
weeds 'a winding through her hair.

I have an itch.
It needs soothing.
I can't scratch it, I won't stop.
I'll scratch until the crimson petals appear.
Watch the vermillion bloom against the white.
Then pick and scratch some more.
Feel relief as I watch the red run in rivulets down into a deep pool.
Hitching myself to an already aching itch was a mistake.
A mistake and itch scratched away with a meat fork*.

"Someday death will take us to another star."
                 ~~Vincent Van Gogh

Painter paint star-spattered-pathways--purple passion patterns;
Grant me glimpses of immortality in indigo inspirations,
Guide me through galaxies glued inside translucent eyelids
With pulsating ivory globes.

Ascending into your astral aspirations,
Fractured atoms crumble into cerulean strings--
Unimpeded by crawling speed of light,
Suspended, momentarily held by moon's golden blood.

Hurtling throughout cobalt cosmic chaos,
Catapulted into vermillion vortex,
Realms rescinding into realms,
Macrocosms into macrocosms--malleable meldings.

Absorbing ancient ancestral dust,
Ten times ten thousand particles emblazened;
Universal union--super-nova soul's rebirth.....
Adrift within a Van Gogh sky.