the questions came that i cannot answer here   or

ever.



did not count this time only the final one.    then

noticed the first ones  are now undone. the wrong

knots.



tomorrow  go back to mend them.     perhaps i do

not want this to end. do not wish to move on from

here.



this is another year and we are quieter now.



sbm.

Humans are stardust.
Nothing more
Nothing less.
We, being stardust, are also energy.
So we cannot be created
Nor destroyed.
Only reborn, constantly.

And I think there's something
Just lovely about that.

I think the reason some of us like the smell of gasoline,
Or the smell of a charred grill,
Or just things burning,
Is because that's what they say space smells like.
And think those few of us
Who enjoy the smell of gasoline,
Charred grills,
And burning things,
Are those of us who somewhat remember
Being nothing more, and nothing less, than a star.

And I think the only people who can remember being stardust
Are the newest and oldest of souls.
Because they're the ones closest to both
The beginning
And the end.

And, while I know it hurts to remember
Things you cannot fathom,
I think there's something beautiful--
Strangely beautiful.
Obscurely beautiful,
In having lived so many lives
Yet still remembering when you were the very first you.

Humans are stardust.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
We, being stardust, are also energy.
So we cannot be created
Nor destroyed.
Only reborn, constantly.

And I think there's something
Just lovely about that.

ain't the pain
ain't the cost
ain't the love
though love is lost
you were right —
It wasn't real
without you here
Joy feels surreal.
ain't the words
that tore my skin
ain't the void
I feel within
ain't the yawning chasm nights
ain't the dying of the light
ain't the urge to conjure blood
Or things I haven't said but should
The future isn't even kind
I beg you
Leave my world behind.

I wonder often which side
Of the coin I am on,
The magnificent irony of God
For giving me words;

I am the lightless eyes that see
From the dark what is leftover
From a library of dreams that
Seem dimly lit longing to be.....

Each stanza I vainly write,
Or are they written already,
Insensible scribblings wondering
If I am the poem or the poet,

A book of sonnet infinite,
Inaccessible rhymed schemes
Prewrit as the lost manuscripts
Of Alexandria lost to fire,

I live among the metaphorical,
Gardens of verbs and fountains
Of nouns, the blind word speaks
All that is seen.

Librarian of my days,
The the form is free I believe,
The cosmic universe in which
I write call to me in words,

Who am I?
The poem or the poet,
The twilight of my days have
Come to wonder what's real,

The delectable world I watch,
The words feed into me,
I realise I am a poet
Living inside the poem.

When Friday buried Thursday
at the cemetery
I was eating eggs and
bacon in my bathrobe.
The other days wore black
attire to the burial
and brought white geraniums.
I stood in silence for three minutes
after I finished my breakfast
then wrote a note for the weekend:

“My time will come,
don’t wait for me,”

and left.

I can see the shafts of sunlight
amber slices through the air.
Gilded rays of fair approval
favor the betters basking there.

But, we live in the shadows;
The often seen but rarely known.
We, the great unworthy
take their experiences for our own.

This is life in the penumbra;
Unacknowledged, though intended.
We live lives by implication.
Rights derived, but not defended.

Nothing grows in the penumbra's
un-illuminated spaces.
Except the mass of shifting shadows
that your compassion rarely graces.

Through the looking glass
she fell,
and fatefully declined.
Into a world
more cold and dark,
than what she left behind.
The rabbit hole
is vast and wide,
not bound
by sense or time.
To find her way,
she must obey
the rules
of this domain.
For if she strays
she'll lose her way,
and find herself astray.
She must be brave
to fight the daze,
and see the light of day.

I write down these words
That you don't understand

Beneath this shell
Is the soul of a broken man

Is this love?
Or only a dream

These pains and fires
Were meant to set us free

1362

Of their peculiar light
I keep one ray
To clarify the Sight
To seek them by—

When I look back at the things I had
The things that now are gone
I was planting seeds of division
But the trees grew tall and strong

I used to see for miles around
But now the forest grows
Beneath the shade of branches
Are secrets no one knows

At first it was a place to hide
An oasis on barren lands
But holding on to a past that's gone
Was just leaving time on my hands

For years I must have wandered
Abandoning all that was good
I thought I knew my way out
But now I'm lost in the woods

I wish I could say
That I don't struggle every day

But most days I do.

For the negativity in my mind
Usually puts me in a bind

For a moment or two.

I constantly fight
To be cheerful and bright

Because deep down that's me.

I'll continue the crusade
Till these thoughts start to fade

And shape who I'll be.