Look in the mirror. Let us both look.
Here is my naked body.
Apparently you like it,
I have no reason to.
Who bound us, me and my body?
Why must I die
together with it?
I have the right to know where the borderline  
between us is drawn.
Where am I, I, I myself.

Belly, am I in the belly? In the intestines?  
In the hollow of the ***? In a toe?
Apparently in the brain. I do not see it.
Take my brain out of my skull. I have the right  
to see myself. Don’t laugh.
That’s macabre, you say.

It’s not me who made
my body.
I wear the used rags of my family,  
an alien brain, fruit of chance, hair  
after my grandmother, the nose
glued together from a few dead noses.  
What do I have in common with all that?  
What do I have in common with you, who like  
my knee, what is my knee to me?

Surely
I would have chosen a different model.

I will leave both of you here,
my knee and you.
Don’t make a wry face, I will leave you all my body  
to play with.
And I will go.
There is no place for me here,
in this blind darkness waiting for
corruption.
I will run out, I will race
away from myself.
I will look for myself  
running
like crazy
till my last breath.

One must hurry
before death comes. For by then  
like a dog ****** by its chain
I will have to return
into this stridently suffering body.  
To go through the last
most strident ceremony of the body.

Defeated by the body,
slowly annihilated because of the body

I will become kidney failure
or the gangrene of the large intestine.  
And I will expire in shame.

And the universe will expire with me,  
reduced as it is
to a kidney failure
and the gangrene of the large intestine.

I've always admired
the hands of a poet
fragile, yet capable of telling
the most breathtaking stories
and writing down
the most frightful thoughts
in the form of ravishing metaphors
so no one really gets
how dreadful they really are

the hands of a poet
can take you to a place
that’s constructed out of time and illusions
the hands of a poet
can lift you up
and make you fly
they can take you to the only place
that they would call shelter

I’ve always admired
the hands of a poet
because they can form the letters
so resolutely
while the words are still pondered about
they can make words look
like they’re on the right place

the hands of a poet
aren’t as damaged as their feelings
and unlike the mind of a poet,
they age
until the poet can’t write
the beautiful thoughts down anymore

Creation is beautiful;
To see something being created is beautiful.
Seeing an idea take flight.

When a poet grabs a pen, and speaks in words of ink
and lets her mind open and flow in a rhythm of expression
She detaches a section of her soul
     and lays it on a piece of parchment
     with the hopes that somebody else can pick it up
     and attach it with their souls, instead.

When a songwriter forms lyrics to let an audience ingest the world through his eyes
and he pairs up with a musician, tapping away keys at the piano
that would send chills down the spine of the most heartless human,,
and the two form stories of sound and lyrics
that ripple through crowds like the detonation
     over the sky of Hiroshima.

When the lonely author writes his sad stories,
Filled with the triumphs he wishes he owned,
he feels the need to fill the paper with more,
because he is in love with creating.
He wants to do more. He wants to be more.
He always feels his actions will never fill the space it should,
     and a vacuum will encompass all of his papers,
     and even his heart,
     so he can never fill either of them as desperately as he wants
but he creates with the hope that somebody can relate.

Even when a boy and a girl hold hands,
or when they hold each other, together, in attraction
     with the pains of the world numbed by the drug of the heart,
     crossing their fingers that they will always get a refill of their prescriptions,
And their silence says more than any words could.
One smiles, and the second can't resist,
     and the creation here is love,
the best,
           and frailest,
creation of all.

As for me: I see creation as a challenge as well.
To push yourself to be something else and make something else.
To inspire, to encourage,
to be beautiful, even if nobody is facing you.
To know that when you die, death won't take you entirely,
     with the words on paper,
     paintings on the wall,
     or kisses that you gave,
you will continue to exist. You can never fully die.
Creation is the key to immortality,
but creation isn't about living forever,
it's about allowing others to see who you really are,
and who they can be.

Creation is telling stories and lessons to others,
Creation is sharing,
Creation is helping.

Creation is beautiful.

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows
     My friends forsake me like a memory lost,
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
     They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied, stifled throes—
And yet I am, and live—like vapors tossed

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
     Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
     But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest, that I love the best,
Are strange—nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes, where man hath never trod,
     A place where woman never smiled or wept—
There to abide with my Creator, God,
     And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling, and untroubled where I lie,
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.

If I wrote in rhyme,
with satisfying time,
would you like it?

Does it comfort you
seeing stanzas of two,

And is it pleasing
without any meaning?

Do you mind it?

And if I were to stumble
on my own words and
my thoughts crumble
beneath the structure

of beautiful nothingness
and regress

to complexity that resembles more
the disjointed thoughts of our souls
the pain and ugly in our hearts
the way we might actually speak (gasp!)
and think
and hope
and hurt
--is that not beautiful enough
for your poetic sensibilities?

If not, I understand
and will no longer clash
my words like waves that crash
on the unforgiving sand.

You may find much to see,
but this poem means nothing to me.

I see a monster
It is eating spaghetti
It is a good thing

I'm glad that it does
Not eat me or my brother
He likes spaghetti

We asked him his name
And he grumbled intensely,
"I'm Mr. Monster!"

He always came in
After a quarter past ten
And raided our fridge.

Frederiksburgville Town
Didn't usually have monsters
But they had pasta

And so the monster
Told the little children things
About from where it came

And it sang a song
That was very short and long
And it went like this:

Gobbledegook gobbledeedee
Fricasha bulungo tirimasu wings!

The children sat stunned
It was a horrible song
You can't sing along.

I like to say I am a childrens book writer,
When I'm asked what it is that I do,
Some people say "he's a modest old blighter!
He's written good stuff for adults too."

I'm afraid I must correct what some people view,
As the simplelest past of my work,
So I say "That's correct, I write adult stuff too,"
And then over my face spreads a smirk.

"But my childrens poetry is much better stuff."
(And at this point their eyebrows arise),
"The audience", I tell them, "is far more tough,
They need intrigue, and twists, and surprise,

At every stage of the story, on every page,
To keep them listening from cover to cover,
Otherwise those dear kiddies fly into a rage,
And will start screaming at father and mother.

But adults are far easier to calm with a book,
It's the children's stuff of which I'm proud"
They then tend to fall silent, and give me a look,
As if what I said wasn't allowed.

Some try to argue; "But surely," they say,
"A thick novel is what good writers aspire
To be known for?" but I don't feel that way,
My aspirations are much, much higher.

Limericks are part of modern psychotherapy
Found to be efficacious in many a country
Edward Lear was before his time and did not think
He could sell his poems to every shrink
Today he would be worth millions in US currency

Someone once asked me If I had,
A heart of glass, paper, stone or air.

A heart of glass I bear,
So you can see right through me.
Whether this means you can see through my love or,
That there is no denying my love is there.
A glass heart is more fragile than others,
But I bear one so you may understand the trust and faith I hold,
In you as the one who holds my heart.

A heart of paper I bear.
So you can see the words written over my heart,
Whether this means you can see pain, sorrow or,
That there is no denying your name is written all over.
A paper heart is more impractical than others,
But I bear one so you may understand the meaning you hold
To me as the one my heart yearns for.

A heart of stone I bear.
So you can see how strong I am,
Whether this means I am cold and loveless or,
That there is no denying my ability to be strong and not falter.
A stone heart is more lifeless than others,
But I bear one so you may understand I can't be hurt and am strong,
For you who my heart beats for.

A heart of air I bear.
So you can see every breath, is one taken for you,
Whether this means my heart is not a physical thing or,
That there is no denying I would love you until my last breath.
An air heart is more infeasible than others,
But I bear one so you may understand I live and breathe,
*For you the love of my life.

A giant squid is friend to none
Fighting, killing all the same
Only strength and steady aim
Can send the squidly monster on the run

A giant squid, a fearsome foe
Quick like snake and strong like cow
Fight the beast if you know how
Otherwise it's time to go

A tiny squid, a little friend
Knows the key to tame the hulk
Have him speak and do not sulk
Tears won't save you from a squidly end

Cheers for all, good times are on the way
The giant squid, he meant no harm at all
The tiny squid has saved us from the fall
Bless his squidly wisdom on this day