Dark of night ignites moonlight.
Ancient self awakened.
New eyes peer into the vast and open.
Nature is alive and dancing,
Yet my mind is silent and still.
Words have escaped me,
Only instinct remains.
Like breathing for the first time,
Forever I am changed.

i like to watch the snow on a winters night

falling soft and gentle  very pure and white

landing on the roof tops  landing on the ground

such a lovely  sight as it spreads around.



a lovely peaceful scene in the night so still

just to watch the snowfall gives me such a thrill

falling to the ground as gentle as can be

a lovely piece of nature that we can watch for free

is it enough that we do not write each day, that we travel on the old train sometimes.



is it acceptable to think in phrases, believe the attrocities yet do not share them

with friends.



what would they think of our diet and strange sleeping habits, we shall not tell them,

anymore.



is it a crime that we have spelled it wrong, and not go to heaven, which is okay

as our heaven is here, on earth.



the phone at the hotel was busy, and they have not rung me back.



yet.



sbm.

Remember Me,
             On a full bloom paradise, a sweet spring escapade,
             when the first bud flourishes,
             on the day you ended my feelings with a drought.

Remember Me,
             On a dwindling heat, a midsummer’s day,
             when the ocean wave crashes,
             with me shouting your name.

Remember Me,
             On a soft autumn breeze, a free falling dream,
             when the last leaf drops,
             together with a heart flowing on a violent stream.

Remember Me,
             On a winter solstice, a frostbitten goodnight,
             when our fragment of memories scatters in a snow-kissed temptation
             as they screamed for a horrible goodbye.

poetry is photography:
the photography of your soul

it begins as an observation captured in stuttering syntax:
the lens of your soul pointing towards a subject, a metaphor, a line
within you, within the world, within the two.

if vague and smudgy this image at first,
the lines rearrange themselves, the grammar settles,
and the image comes into focus - sharp and still.

as you would a camera, approach things at angles,
you flood your poetry with perspective, with self, with distance,
stamp yourself onto it, and you know it belongs as yours.

and you know you have captured that pearl in an oyster,
those millions of dying stars exploding within you,
an image of yourself.

yet, sometimes, you're out of film and however you click the shutter,
your words fall off the lines, burst into dissonance, or finds itself unwritten.
like photography, you do not expect a stable yield of inspiration.

then, with the years, you lay your poetry on a wall -
chronologically, alphabetically, thematically, or anything -
and you will step back to see a montage of your life in eloquent snapshots.

if poetry should ever be photography - then -
it would be the photography of one's soul.

The street Yes teaches the soul
To lose all hope and fight
With standard flesh in parallel
Reflection of drowning realities.
The street Yes teaches the heart
To break and gratefully piece itself
Back together like broken sidewalks
Uninterrupted in the geology
Of parallel violence.

The street does not teach tenderness
To rise with renewed passion;
A Phoenix phenomena pounding
The chest and crushing the solitude.
The street does not teach
How to cope with happiness
Or the success where none was before,
The street always educated,
Heavily, for its burden.