The older you get
the shorter the days become
so live while you're young

They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.

There is nothing like
a bathroom window
where you can sit comfortably
and watch the snow
piling up on the branches
of the barren trees
in your yard;
I once met the people
who invented thermopane;
thanks, guys! it looks
really cold out there,
I think I’ll bake
some cookies.

living with death in your spectrum
balances the mind and heart-
where rainbows never fail to delight
and rain makes the green grow.

Woke up feeling kinda good today,
Actually got out of bed on the first try.
Not every day has to be a struggle, right?
Thinking maybe things are finally looking up.

Took a walk, breathed in the fresh air,
Oh man, even my coffee tasted better.

Don’t know why, but I laughed for no reason,
I guess this is what normal feels like.
Everything’s fine. Totally fine.

7 YEARS

Darkness
Pain
Suffering
Growth
Newfound strength
Heartbreak

Fighting on and rising above

Love
Joy
Softness
Strength
Peace
tranquility

Living my life, because I can.
Because 7 years ago, I chose life.

Gardening

I planted a letter
The letter was y
It grew into a word
A word called why
The word grew to a sentence
Why? Why? Why?
The sentence over time grew into a mighty tree
And all the branches were questions why
And when the time was ripe
They bore the fruit of answers
And it was the tree of knowledge
And I took the fruit
And I ate.

a potion maker,  
seeking the formulae
of the combination
of the
known and the none,
the wizard’s ideation
of the secret spark of
creation, the starter fire
of human destiny & desire

who needs gold,
when,
the power of birth,
the mystery of girth
the fluids of oils,
plus 57 varieties
of human blood,
in a precise tabulation
the sap of human cell
constructs, heated
gentle on a low flame,
do not forget, or regret
if the salt & pepper
of discernment is
overlooked, the sighs,
the quiet of boredom,
the leveling moments
when creation is initiated

and then
my heart can be
known to some,
even careful read
between the lines ~
the lines on my eyes,
the cross hatch upon
a forehead, the crinkles
where time and laughter
intersected and injected
the whites spaces between
these words

enough enigma…

never!

I can't quite forget Vienna
3 days in beautiful snow
St. Stephansdom above
Me solo below

Embers by Sandor Marai
Inhuman desire
Off in distant Asia
We gaze into the Fire

                George W. Liar