it feels the each,
the mouth into which
sun crawls
moon sings
and trees

suddenly bluster
with and with.

a lark
a poppy
and the breaking

of darkness before

a fist swollen of
red newness to be:


(to be hard ; to be naked ; to be great)

memory is a stalker who will pounce
when you least expect it

some memories come in beautiful colour touching
touched long ago and remembered for fleeting moments

but the in-house stalker with a vengeance
is the one you would willingly shake off and forget forever

Sunrise at 4 am.
Birdsong before my alarm.  
Outside an open
Bedroom window

I saw no reason to greet
Another day with other than
Gratitude.

A deer drinking dew from
Leaves, startled by a
Fox, then, seeing no threat,
Continued to make
My morning.

Poetry like a raging river
Dividing and reuniting
Around rocks as if
Nothing.

Some sentences make me want
To touch each word, feeling  
The braille soul-matter
Beneath each pixel.

Norwegian sun on rooftopped
Reader; beads of sweat fall on
My touch screen
That I

Wipe off carefully in order
To read
Just one
More.

May the same sun warm the
Core of your poet's soul.
May none of the stars
On your night sky of

Creativity
Ever
Even
Fade.

They say no love is perfect.
How could anything be imperfect
When love is pulling even the frailest of
Strings attached?

Whether that be a lifeline, a noose, or the
Electrical cord to its own
Respirator, its final word would be
A smiled whisper of either

Hope or rememberance.
Gratitude is grace.
Even diamonds decompose.
Breath gives meaning to air.

Norwegian summer night.
She opens her guest room window and
Balcony door to

Give the scent of warm pine and
Sunstroked willow a free tour of her
Apartment on a welcome breeze.

I mute the TV, as she enters her bedroom  
Leaving me shirtless in shorts on her
Sofa, headphones nearly plugged into

My laptop when she requests a tuck-in,
Knowing that granting me the remains of
Her Saturday night sixpack means

She's going to bed alone.
I kiss her forehead goodnight. She steals
A bonus hug, wanting it to

Last until morning though it's
Futile. I bury my face in warm, soft
Neck. She

Releases hesitantly. Smiles.
She has bed. I have Johnny Cash and Chet
Baker, Alan Watts and Allen Ginsberg,

Beer, time, and a window of solitude.
"Silent" and "listen" are spelled with
The same letters.

My impairment is that I am a man.
I love her. And the aloneness that
A man can only obtain when

Even the loneliness has left him.
I can't feel my feet, unless she does what
She has learned to do;

Give me space. Space with the texture,
Colour and pattern of the
Blanket one tucks

Around
The legs of someone
In a wheelchair, gesturing by it:

*I love your
Every single
Circle.

My secrets are the size of
Planets. They smell of diesel
And magnolia, and
They fire at the inside of
My heart with nuclear arrows
The size of a toddler's
Intentions towards a
Crying mother, flowers in tiny
Hand and all.

We march
Withering white
All seas to dust

The ground caves in
The earth grows hollow

Ribs through the skin
Teeth through the lips
Breath catching black

We march
In a ceaseless beat
To the rhythm of dead machines
Over cracked roads
And empty homes