You're on your own again,
Take a walk on that endless green glen.

It snows heavy over our missing puzzle pool.
I need some fresh air for my burning young heart, for it to cool.

That blindfolded searching, turns into a flu
What would it take to hop on that time machine, making it all undo,
To feel the stillness when the erasure happens to that stuck tattoo?

It hurts my chest when i realize one more lie, the more i find
Cannot even drink five bottles of Baileys to drink you out my mind
The last lesson branch i must hold on tightly is our bond and that it was glorified...

In honor of getting older,
wiser, sillier and bolder -
I have decided to take the shackles off.
They keep me safe, but curse me soft.
As my life has flashed before my eyes,
Suddenly, I have come to realize -
   I haven’t lived enough
      I haven’t loved enough
         I haven’t danced,
            nor laughed hard enough.

They keep no jealous watch,
nor plot to cross each way.
He walks in robes of gold at dawn,
she drapes in silver’s sway.

He drinks from drifting clouds,
warm hands in mist and flame;
she whispers to the scattered stars,
and calls them each by name.

The stars are patient eyes above,
that glimmer, blink, and know
they watch when sun comes flooding in,
and when the moon must go.

They share the sky like quiet friends,
passing in gentle turn;
no envy in their changing light,
no shadowed wish to burn.

If only we were made the same,
to share this earth in peace
no wars to scorch, no hearts that break,
no cries that never cease.

To look above and learn their way,
how harmony is spun
to move with love through all our days,
as moon and stars and sun.

the cicadas slur their final words
of summer

from one side of the lake
to the other

a sedge of herons
is perfect

just above the water
all along

the green of the mountains
autumn

is already pecking its reds
and yellows

drift to any distance
and you will dance

through delight
and damage

i have been           loneliness
i have been           holiness

and i now know
the difference

One day you will read these lines,
maybe under a tree,
or somewhere far as the sun shines.
You will notice in these words,
all the norms and values I once mentioned
about how the world works, and how it is shaped by intention.
My voice will play in your mind.
I hope you remember me as someone
strong, sincere and kind.

In our world are oranges, olives and birds, but the hard truth I must tell you is this:
the world holds space for broken systems.
The same ones you profit off still hold victims-
the lives of those deemed meaningless,
and easy to risk and rid.
For those you must amplify your voice,
keep them alive and on the grid.
Life does not matter, while it flies and spins,
if you do not try and give your all from within.
For those oppressed and forgotten -
we, who remember will rise,
the rest let be rotten.

Like rainfall
On a windowpane,
So crystalline, so clear,
Sliding down
As teardrops
To slowly reappear,
As puddles
In my misery,
To seep away
With time.
But emotively,
Your cloudburst,
Paints these
Fresh teardrops....
As mine.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
10 August 2025

When I walk through the green paradise,
of graceful leaves softly surrounding me;
As the breezes blow like silent missives,
I hear the voices of angels calling me.

It's nearly dawn and the air is fresh,
with the scent of daffodils and violets;
There's a rainbow painting the sky above,
bringing life to this summertime event.

I'm enthralled by the beauty of it all,
filling my heart with feelings of romance;
The meadows shining like glistening emeralds.
I want to kick off my shoes and dance.

Then made comfortable by lilting whispers,
of angelic calls to life within the tepid wind;
I take my time absorbing the atmosphere,
assuring me that the world will never end.

Human beings trust
The sum of prejudices,
Blunt as rusty blades of limitation
Repeating the same mistakes,
Longing for infallibility,
Losing the last crumbs of trust.

They fell before
Yet wanted the absolute
Of the right version of events.
Sliding under a pile of tangled,
Broken wires,
Which were supposed
To build their impeccability
In judging other beings.

Water changes its state,
How easy to trudge
Further into the blurring
Instead of understanding,
They hurl accusations.

Dust of doubt,
On the empty road,
A rocky path
Perforated by frustration,
And rigid filters.

Drinking the last sip
Of wild screams,
They say goodbye
To gentle humanity,
Selling the heart
to detectors, fallible tools
Of elusive dreams.
Quo vadis domine?
In exitium.

I am not a poet.
I am only a wanderer in the marketplace of words,
a fool who follows the glimmer of syllables
as others follow the scent of bread.
Poetry is not ink on paper.
It is the pulse beneath the page
a breath moving through the hollow reed of the poet,
a secret that leans close to the ear of the heart.
When I meet a poem, I bow.
I circle it once,
then twice,
then again,
as though it were a shrine whose mystery
can never be entered in a single step.
Each reading strips away a veil.
Sometimes the veil is my own blindness,
sometimes the poet’s mercy in hiding the flame
until I am ready.
There are nights I leap from sleep crying, I have it!
and mornings when the truth laughs,
gently reminding me:
Child, that was only the shadow of the meaning
come back, and drink deeper.
Poetry is a journey without map or return.
It is the caravan of joy
that passes through my heart again and again.