I am one voice I am alone
But I hear a ringing in the
Distance,  It could be imagined
I could be only one in this land
Of perpetual darkness.

Could there be anyone else but
Me, I hear echoes as if something
Far but near, I am in the vastness
Of a blinding white, There has
To be more to this than me.

"I run in blackness never a direction seen"
"I run though blinded by what isn't seen"

I reach this edge as if a finite space,
Mirrored, contorted images,
An aura of what that which is
Opposite to me.

Running until I hit upon a enclosed space,
I see a detachment of what is viewed.
I'd look upon, as my features blinded
By this reflection of confusion, bathed
In purest puzzlement.*

I touch the boundary
I touch upon  the confines

"Yours"*
"Ours"

Palms  grasp upon each, a moment of clarity
As what was single parts unite as a merged
Thought of right or wrong, a conscience,
Of two parts that on meeting became the
Same but singularly separated. Voices that
Speak in sync, but always different
together and apart as *one.

Your life.
You are the hero.

Start from
There.

Now
Write.

Every page is
Blank after

This
One.

That is
Power.

Pen
Power.

God is a
Poet.

You have that in
Common.

I try to catch my words like fireflies
and store them in a jar.
I cannot.
Whenever I lift the lid to speak again,
the jar talks to me...
And off they fly.

In the silence,
inspired thoughts
make pleas for their own release.
Within moments
they are captured by another,
no longer mine.

Anything but silence is futile
when it comes to liberating
the true meaning of my fireflies.

If you want a ballad
On a tragic conflict
Of important people,
With a little magic,
I can write of kidnapped girls
Who disappeared
From our world.

I can pen a narrative
On the Lady of the White House
Seeing her world
Reflected in a mirror,
Like Jackie's interior struggles
With all of Jack's trollops.

Perhaps a dramatic monologue
Such as Push one for English.

Sonnets will cost you more,
But an ode comes cheaply
As I praise your features
In lofty style,
Or personify
Your shoes with soul.

I can be a winner
With eulogies
And elegies.
I once grieved for Elvis
While standing
At the dais
With lyrical style
And more.
Just say what you adore;
If you need a poet laureate,
I can write a couplet.

"Tropical sun, you ****** cheat
never expected, you'd behave
like this" in his chair sitting huddled,
driving away cold with every means
at his command,
he murmured to himself,
not bothered about the state of affairs
of anything, big or small,
aren't we all mortals, after all?
What's the point in being anxious
about the state of economy or environment
if you have no interest in this arrangement
beyond certain point,
all one has to worry is about is today
the grey, cold, overcast, hopeless day
that ruins the pleasure one yearns for
weep over the love denied,
that's what this day is fit for.

There is a knock on the door
is it the cold wind throwing twigs
or plain wishful thinking, of a day
when love was in abundance, knocking at door
but it's persistent,who cloud it be
in a cold frozen, godforsaken mean morning
celebrating deserted lovers and loneliness..
He opens the door, a hole in to cold
like a frozen wonder gone astray
in a comely female form past presents
it's her, his uncertain love, once again at her best
and look at her, the special love potion
for the most gloomy day of dejection and self hate.

She hugs him with a mother's warm hold
plants a passion stirring kiss on his cold crusty lips
when the lover in him takes over him with a vengeance
his  universe takes a quick turnabout
to love, longing and hope, he resolved to reject
cold sun is no more a disappointment,
just the opposite, sowing new seeds of warmth,
Isn't it then true, what we hear, every now and then
"Woman is the center of man's universe" Amen

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

I spoke those words, and
immediately almost choked on them
I always second guess decisions,
usually I conclude I made the wrong one

but with you it felt right, at first
now I'm only left with doubts, and the thought
that maybe it was all too soon
because there's only silence between us

you rarely open up to me
yet when you do, I feel loved
the moment is always fleeting
with you, it's  either feast or famine

now I am scared to death to even talk to you
I'm scared that I might've lost you
scared of what you'll say, or not say
when all I really want to know is...

do you feel the same way about me?

my life is lived with such
motion and speed
that sometimes I miss the
absence of sound
the deep stillness and silence
that is at the core of my being

She Is the thorn within beauty
Ever silent, static elegance
Her rage burns near by.

The purity of the petals
Waiting in the darkness
To feed, pollen succumbs
those exposed, drawn, enticed
By her fragrance.

She is the picture of beauty
A contradiction of a place
Enveloped in darkness, but
All is not what it seems, for
She is the thorn that will
Bleed you dry.

For all that fall, a new flower
blossoms, and she becomes
Sharper. As she has a rage burning
That must be fed, for the petals will
Fall and the thorn will be no more.

"Mary, why is it that thee comfort me so, when mine twelve
and the multitudes of Judea, plead for me to grant them
aid and succor in this world, when I can only promise them
peace in the next? Do ye not also wish from me things I have
not the power to give?"

"Ieshua, I have loved you all the long years of our lives, since the
moment we played with sticks and sand upon the shores of Galilee. We were children and even then I knew that my love would be filled with sorrow and longing for you. Your Father, even in those gentle times held sway over you. We were very young and I sought to kiss you when your earthly father and mother were away at the market. Our lips touched and our hearts turned to fire, and you lept away, banishing me from your sacred heart."

Years passed and Jesus the carpenters' son, Prophet and Savior yet to be
never forgot Mary of the Magdalene, she who held sway over his heart
while his Father in Heaven guided His Son upon a path unforseen.

The moment that Jesus of Nazareth, and Mary of Magdalene
may have indeed lay down together as man and wife,
matters not at all, in spite of what those angry priests say.

She and He, their Love, guides me.