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Walking down a wooded path
tall flowing trees all around,
I came upon the river’s edge
and sat down on the ground.

Sitting at the edge of the river
I stare at its ongoing flow,
I start to give it all my pain
a release with each little throw.

My hardest pain is fear
that I’ve had from so long ago,
of never feeling good enough
that’s dulled my inner glow.

It eats at me like a cancer
each and every day,
the fear of never being good enough
and again being thrown away.

Years of disappointment and abuse
only being property, nothing to love,
but always trying to make things right
so everyone else could rise above.

I throw this fear out into the river
sit back and watch it pass slowly by,
I wrap my arms around myself
feel the release, let myself cry.

I throw out all the other pains
betrayal, heartache, loneliness and more,
I watch them drift gently way
these last tears will be left on this river shore.

Noticing as each and every pain
slowly floats down the river away,
I observe at a distance
as they fade into the suns sparkling rays.

Walking down a wooded path
tall flowing trees all around,
I came upon the river’s edge
and was surprised at what I found.

And ever onward shall we strive
and from the circle peace derive.
The sea in robes of mossy green
and blues the eye has never seen...
In grays that mock the stormy sky
and depths that hold the tears gone by....

A sweet release we give our heart
from pain of past that tore apart,
relief that only one can find
when hearts we let, become unconfined,
to leave behind those stormy skies
letting self-love baptize…

A tide of tears resides within
and waits to overflow.
i greet with a smiling face
so others will not know.

How feeble is this masquerade.
Transparent are the games.
Emotions should be given room
without the chides and blames.

The time will come to open up
and let the dam release...
my will, the pressure stop.
my soul will be at peace.

Weep when grief prescribes.
Laugh for humor's sake.
Love with everything you have
and forgive, all your mistakes.

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He was a poor boy from an orphanage nearby.
The only thing he had left from his parents was a nasty scar.
Strangely, he did not hate them for it,
he wore it with pride,
though the other kids laughed when he did.
Compared to the others from this orphanage,
even though the scar covered half of his face,
he wasn’t the monster in this monstrous place.
He had a pure heart, for inside there was hope,
that once he will find his parents.
Only this helped him cope
with the torture his beloved scar
has brought upon him so far.

The years went by,
as they always do,
and from the boy was a man
(and a handsome man, too.)
The scar remained the same, though,
as if untouched by time
but the man didn’t mind
“staying the same, well, that’s not a crime”.
You might even say he was thankful for it;
if the scar was the same as when he was a kid,
his parents would know that it’s really him, their baby, their son.

Suddenly, his time at the orphanage was done.
But when tomorrow came and they had to let him go,
they surprised him, when they wanted to know;
whether he had a name.
And when he said no, they thought for a bit,
then decided to call him John Doe.
So with a new name and an old scar,
he left for the city he knew was far
and full of people afraid of such things as a scar,
for it makes others see how different they are.
But he felt bold, when he left for the station,
because he wasn’t scared of the population.

By the time he reached the city,
for the first time now, he met pity,
wondering glances that came his way,
but when he returned them they glanced away.
Yet nothing could stop him,
not the looks, not the shame,
he was looking for his parents
not for someone to blame.
The scar was his proof and his motivation,
so he headed for the town hall with no hesitation.
It took them a while there to find the right place
but giving up, well, that wasn’t his case.
So with an address in his hands and good luck, too,
he left the town hall and his eagerness grew.

…Excited but nervous, ready as well,
he reached out his hand and rang the bell.
But what a surprise when the door opened wide
and a little woman stood inside.
It wasn’t his mother,
that he could tell,
he felt it in his heart and in every cell.
He remained polite, though, and asked if she knew
of a couple, that should live here, too.
He introduced himself as an old friend,
for he wasn’t sure she would understand.
The woman shook her head
and told him with regret,
that the people who lived here were long long dead.
Killed by a fire which burnt down the flat.
No one survived but a baby, she said.
When he heard those words, he lost his breath,
he fell to his knees and prayed for death.

He lost his purpose, his only goal
and it broke his soul
and his heart as well,
he was a man no more,
just an empty shell.
With a hideous scar that spoiled his face,
he was an orphan who belonged no place…

Suddenly, a calm voice spoke,
it caressed his ears,
made his lips shake
and his eyes fill with tears.
It belonged to a girl with velvet black hair,
she made him feel better just standing there,
with her hand on his shoulder and her words filling the air.
And it was then and there he fell in love with her.
They left together and never looked back,
she showed him things no one’s life should lack.
And although their paths had parted one day,
the love she planted in his heart did stay.

In ten years’ time, life changed a great deal;
he had a son, whom he loved much
and a perfect life, if there is such.
He was happy now.
And more than that,
though it took a decade,
the scar on his face began to fade.
As well as the pain that possessed his heart
before he let go of his painful start.
The scar lost its colour but it was clear as day,
it will never completely fade away.
John Doe was more than fine with this,
“it isn’t just a scar, that scar of his,
it serves as a reminder of who he is.”

The poor boy from the orphanage nearby
was poor no more
and this was why.

is a thought i had the other day
thinking, as one does, back
to when life was
just a little more junked-up.
as easy as it may seem, i was
a little bit more verbose those days,
foul-mouthing my way through my problems
and strangely,
call me a printer's press because
the grease kept coming and the pages kept coming
(and i was one squeaky wheel, you know)
and it seems to me a tad lopsided
how junked-up living overflows
into creative spaces, and
while picking through the flotsam and jetsam of
your overhyped depression and paranoia,
lightning strikes from a fed-up God,
tired of your long-winded prayers,
sizzle the brain's juices
and out comes a fresh verse to lay down
into another page of those worn out notebooks
so why does a person seem prolific
when they've just got a lot of problems?

We were drinking coffee when
depression showed up at the door of the home we built, pounding.
Eviction notice in hand,
your soul parceled out into donation bins.
Foreclosure sign,
caution tape around the chest that I slept on for a year.

I sit out in the sun
to bleach the tan line from my ring finger.
I hold cold cups and shake strangers’ hands
to erase the mould of your grasp from mine.
I want to sear off my palms.

I miss even those nights when you looked at my fire and laughed.
So I make you coffee (but I know I make it wrong);
your ghost in this house still criticizes.

I made you coffee every day because it was all I could do;
my only way of getting into you, a vector.
As the hot brew flowed past your heart, I watched,
like a child at Christmas, hoping you’d feel my love.
Hoping the glaze would clear up from your eyes.

I only wish this were a bond that stayed,
that stayed when your mind put plugs in your ears:
when I screamed and screamed that I loved you,
that I’d rock every little thing you regret to sleep.

I went to the doctor about this dizziness.
He checked my ears, he asked why my eyes were red.
This vertigo--a hurricane made by the page turning in my life.
I am a bag in your wind.

The day you left I wrote you a recipe for how you like your coffee,
because you don’t know, but I have it memorized.
My handwriting changes halfway down the page, as I change,
as you drive farther and farther away.

Our love is a child I’ve carried,
now I’m bent over, sick.
Loss took your place in our home,
but it’s unsteady on its feet;
I have to walk it from room to room.

My name has been yours, possessive.
And although these days I correct myself and say ‘I’ during speech,
My thoughts are still ‘we.’
I still think about your lungs when I cough.

So I still make us coffee every day (but I know I make it wrong).

Spring, cherished maiden ambivalent:
three parts rain, one part intemp'rate sun.
Show sympathy for clouded, rueful weather -
and let her weep 'til she, at last, is done

for there is no permanence in her grief.
She's winter's lover, moreso summer's child:
clutching daisy chains like bespoke rosaries,
new petalled life retrieves her golden smile.

This cloudy morn of murk,
Where on my tongue I taste dirt,
I should wallow in grey plumes, sir,
But I glide by this dank flirt,

On lady nature lay cobbled stone,
Without shoes we’d feel at home,
But this spring one looks to be known,
In diamond vestments is how we ‘grow’,

As my glide comes to a stop,
And I lay rest in this earthy shop,
Sipping elixirs of generations crops,
I breath I taste tip top,

Chakra advocate with stature,
I see you too truth catcher,
Without shoes, tongue out plan hatcher,
The dew fills your pallet, oh catch her.

As days moved forward

our bodies became one

the eyes led the ears

the ears led the tongue

the tongue traced the parts that were locked away from everyone,  
and uttered words that awoke the skin

the skin brought a rush that moved mountains

pleasure not easily forgotten
and sent us straight into euphoria

and no one ,

No one could fantom the thought that
we were once strangers

because we were perfect strangers

Bite down hard.
There can be no question of who’s in charge here.
There can be no doubt about the alpha- sheep.
Make sure you hit an artery; we can not allow that kind of blood to flow unbroken inside their veins- and remember that we are only trying to help them remember their place. Because we love them.
Stand back, and let the smell attract the vultures.
Let the laymen see-
EXCUSE ME EVERYONE, THERE HAS BEEN A BRUTALITY
And make sure you lick your teeth clean.
Make sure your breath smells like honey.

Strip them, strap them down, parade them through the public square, declaring,
LOOK AT WHAT THEY DID TO ME.

What a spectacle.  

Why can’t we all just make peace?