Wastrel of liminal spaces

trembling in giant’s steps

Invisible, they quake
the earth I glide upon

in waiting



To take shape

be wrought

or ripped apart

no longer vaporous



The sky blinks

in passing days

and fog encompasses

the land that claims

my mind when I

can’t think



I stare into

the blank white hue

once stark

which now

the sunlight

cannot penetrate



To be the energy of breath

antithesis of life and death

the thing which seamlessly

slips into and through

the lungs of living things



Only to return

to lingering

against all odds

static in its shifting

When love finds me

I hope it is because

it is the love that I embody

I take a step back

and I hold my breath

and I cherish it



I exhale

and I let go

and life ebbs

and life flows



I breathe it in again

believing all is real

in this temporary moment



A blurred snapshot of time

not beholden to memory

a simple blip against

a backdrop
 


swallowing 
me



And I exist

in those high-speed moments

when fear sets in

fully immersed, yet

unaware, 



when soft light pulses

to a beating city heart

on thoroughfares

in summer nights,



that we are

preciously enlivened

by that hurried energy

in a vast and eerie

cold, dead

peace

I think I’m finally starting to relax. 
It was such a simple day, 
but it was beautiful. 

I took a walk in the park, 
and had a great time 
playing a silly game, 
and forgetting to care 
about a thing. 

I got stung by a hornet 
for the first time, 
and I could have complained, 
but I thought it was pretty cool. 

Firsts are neat. 

I ate junk food 
and breathed deeply 
and took a selfie with a hawk 
that landed in a tree 
without leaves 
and barely any limbs. 

It almost seemed like 
it was posing for a picture. 

I went home, 
and I wasn’t tense, 
and I wasn’t stressed, 
and the noise didn’t bother me, 
too much. 

I’m starting to let go 
of everything holding me back. 
I don’t want to worry anymore. 
I want to sleep deeply, 
and wake up feeling restored. 

I want to write without caring 
why I’m doing it. 

You know 
I questioned if I should even 
be writing poetry anymore, 
last night? 

I feel like I haven’t been 
enjoying it like I used to. 
Like it’s just a chore, 
or something I’m doing 
purely because I feel like 
that’s what I’m supposed to do. 

Maybe my real passion is conversation. 
But, I think, when the words flow freely 
and with that certain kind of eloquence 
I only find in isolated moments of silence, 
when the mind decides to sing instead of speak, 
I experience true magic. 

The current passes through me, 
in that wisping instant. 
I’m stolen away to a place 
of solace and safety. 

I’m left feeling energized and nourished, 
but suddenly aware of a thirst that 
I’d never realized I needed to quench 
until I wrote that specific poem. 

So maybe purpose 
has nothing to do 
with passion. 

Maybe people are beautiful, 
and small moments of grace 
keep me loving life, and 
breathing it in and 
becoming through my experiences. 

I’m certainly passionate about sharing 
an aspect of the world with myself; 
ingesting it, and incorporating it into me. 

Living as a culmination of memory and energy 
passed through so many different beings 
and incarnations of something 
that is ultimately formless; 
that will always inspire me. 

And contemplating that inexpressible fact, 
of what is nebulous yet ever present, 
is the thread that ties me to fate. 

But poetry is something, I think, 
that is written on my heart 
to sustain my soul. 

It’s a sort of inscription or incantation, 
invoking the very essence of my existence. 
And that isn’t to say I am a poet 
because I write poetry. 

What I’m saying is that I write poetry 
because the emotion of life is distilled 
through my soul and causes my heart to swell 
until it bursts. 

I am sodden with the ichor of existence. 
Sometimes living hurts, 
but nothing is more real 
than loving it, anyway.

Mid November lingers still

with the aroma of sunlight

and the ghost of sliced peaches



We leave the windows cracked

on 65 degree days, 

when the sky is blue

and the wind is blustering



Keen to hear its voice

whispering secrets alongside 

melodies of chimes ringing

in unison with the falling leaves



And the trees are dancing

in an act of praise

to the cycles of change

and the end of days


Knowing.



Every winter begets spring

in resurgence, when

death breathes life
into 
the sleeping glen



and in the valley of death

on nightfall’s pillow

the sun mingles with hushing shadows

brilliance, set low in subtlety

only gleaned by sharpest eyes



So I’ll capture

a flash of time exposed

keep it in a bottle in the back of my mind

diverge and recombine

and light the world up



and when the moon beams down on its lover

and the sun admires her from afar

I’ll know the cosmos glisten, just out of sight

teeming with unknown color