.

You could...

Let the universe decide...
If it has space for you.

Let life decide...
If it has a future for you.

Let God decide...
If He has amnesty for you.

Or you could...

Let yourself decide...
To fight for a place
where there's always a tomorrow,
blessed with opportunities
to seek forgiveness.

.

my son is a better version of me

i easily break
he rides storms smilingly

i crumble in a crisis
he handles stoically

my emotions play loud on face
he hides it handsomely

i'm doubtful of exploring
he ventures courageously

i speculate on life too much
he bothers not seriously

To live out of the draught of so many wiggling tongues
is a blessing in deed
its the silence of the heart with its steady beat of love
calls the poet to her web
the intoxication of places beyond the senses, not revealed to the chattering masses who cannot hear beyond the surface of things.
its the patience of the universe solicitous for her children, to come and partake of her fare.

Yes, I still feel her breath against
My ear, as asleep as my
Arm that I
Will not need to move until she
Turns in a dream,

And I sink into my own.
Never again will that passing
Train throw
Blue light shadows on the
Ceiling above

My head where her smoke
Detector
Blinks its little, red light of
Reassurance.
Whiffs of lilac as I cross the

Street to her place
Where she is waiting.
All yesterdays, now.
The right songs still summon
Recap videos of our year-and-a-

Half in
Love behind my eyes.
Not choosing suffering,
I curl up underneath a warm
Blanket of what

Was; what can never
Truly be taken
Away.
And rest.
Sometimes something flowers

With such
Grace that its passing away
Simply cannot unfold as  
Any less graceful.
Ghandi shot in the chest, meeting

The Void whispering:
Ram, Ram, God's
Name, as if saying: "I'm coming,
Look, ma': No hands!"
No attachments.

Lovers no more, friends for life, 
Once sharers of
Intimacy and
Laughter, tears and everyday
Moments; little

Grains of gold.
Our own buried treasure
Where ex marks the spot, and the
Map is riding on
Kisses blowing with the

Scent of lilac and the sound of
Magpies chattering against  
Trains as if saying: "Just try, I'll
Take ya!"
Our attitude

In the nutshell they
Peck at with hungry
Beaks, leaving little traces like
Runes in powder snow.
To be nothing but grateful, even

For the days that could have been
Better. To miss her with a
Warm heart, content.
Wish her more happiness and
Security than I did even on

The days of
Our most intense affections.
Parting is part of Life, and
I'll remain at peace with
The parts both

Before and
After, until
My arm is
Forever asleep with the
Rest of me, resting.

A quiet light
slips across the stage
pencil drawings
flipped formed into
anorexic glass
stick figure thin
stacked mimes
only the barking
dogs and whales
could hear it explode
into sonar boom.

My life,
has become a debut
of silent animation
I'm the first of Emile Cohl's
funny faces,
my heart,
a voice whispered
death threat
a French caricaturist
largely forgotten
incoherent
love contortionist
pulsations
of the retina
rapid eye movement
fantasmagorie,
complex shifting sand dollars
and rabid flower images,
they never forget a pretty face.
Sword-fighting fish mouths
gaped like cannons
dancing petals wind borne
missing
milk carton illusions
memories drum
tight like elephants
stuffed into houses
avant-garde
artistic movement
curdling my eyes by hydropathy
baths of incoherent apathy
falling between my brows
like Chinese water torture.

Pictures that are missing you,
that were always missing me
and me, missing the music
of laughter, that love
that turned numb
the earth thumbed green.

For Helene.


Ashes on the water, now.
Love's bones like dust downstream.  
At least it got to see itself in our eyes,
Feel itself between hand holding hand

And whispered caresses.
From pillow talk to fists raised at
Concerts, glasses of Portuguese wine
On her balcony to the sound of magpies

We named our neighbours.
We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Ended gracefully.

I open hands that held hers and see
Nothing but skin worn by labour,
And air.
Ashes on the water, now.

Embers without a chance against rivers  
Cold with melted mountain snow and
Unyielding differences.
Some loves drown with lungs too full

To cry; others float like a funeral-pyre-
Longboat into the night, ablaze.
King and queen, hand upon hand.
Crowns tied from fresh flowers,

We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Slid apart the way a glacier parts from
The hills; slowly, but with the force

Of its thousands of tons.
Ashes on the water,
Where the ghost of our union rests
Underneath the surface of our memories.

I will remember you.
Until the stars burn out, raining the
Dust of themselves like snow upon
These waters that always are moving.

Today bears the weight of erstwhile trepidation.
Uncertainties exhumed only to be hung up as ominous flags.
Black as night my widowed heart paraded through the procession.
Garbed in ash encrusted, sequinned frock, hemmed train all tattered in rags.

Herald the face with no features yet obscured behind a chiffon veil.
In hands, a bouquet of black roses, worm-eaten to the stems.
The mourning sun only gave the weakest glow,
feeble attempt to rejuvenate all that is stale;
to imbue the shimmer back into forsaken jewels and dulled gems.

Her entourage kept up with heavy feet; all grim and sullen.
Also faceless... Armed with pitchforks and torches.
Today they will draw much; having thirst for crimson.
Today they witness her death as the black parade marches.