Night in this field of snow
the dark crushing cold
how long this winter
that’s come again
how long the spring
river that slowly wends
the heat and sear of summer's fever
the bruising cold of this November
how long for us to mend?

When you uproot a poet, you ****** away her 'self'
Because her self is enjoined to the soil beneath her feet,
With tendrils she seeks sustenance from her land
And blooms into songs of love and promises to keep
When you rob a painter of her colour palette
That shone messily but beautifully of the hues,
Of saffrons and greens merging together and seeping
Into the brown of her skin- the only colour she knew,
You turn her hands into barely-there phantoms,
Unable to create a canvas of her heart's song,
Jarred by chants of 'who are you?' 'where are you from?'
'do you belong?' 'prove you belong!'
How does she prove her belonging to the cradle
That birthed her, that housed her,
Whose elements are admixed with all her blood inside
How does she profess her allegiance to that earth?
It is as if being exhorted to prove she is alive,
inhale, see!, exhale, see!, I breathe, see!
It is as if being wrenched by her limbs to gauge their depth
the pulse in my arteries, see!, these crimson rhythmic spurts, see
O my land, I bleed with abandon;
O my land, I bleed in poetry for thee.

~Together we exhaust each other’s senses
feeding off carnal needs and desires
made sinful by frigid disasters

~Time has nothing on two who have
suffered from a cruel separation
due to fear of crucifixion

~Your taste lingers inside my mouth
while the memory of feeling the beat
of your heart surge through your staff

~Selfish am I too have kissed your entire
body just to inhale every intense release
of your body's purging taste on my buds

~Still it was you
you finally getting what you wanted
you taking those black lace *******
in your hand and ripping them down
while plunging deep inside the heaven
you came to over and over in dreams

~Spent you and I
Exhausted but never over
Our imprint is inside us both

~Tell that to our haters....

A year is going to die
but its memories will stay
in the times ahead.

The success, the failure, the try
will be there next day,
the worries to carry to bed.

But over all else
the love I got
will still warm my heart.

As certain as time sails
what can't be bought
will be life's special part.

Was I as generous in giving
for this special gift I received
was I as kind?

The question is haunting
though I tried indeed
my best wasn't good enough I find.

Forgive me where I failed
didn't shine in the light
you let me be in.

I promise to make amend
and keep it in sight
loving you more is all I mean.

The new year arrives not with thunder, but with a whisper—soft, persistent, and unyielding.
It carries the weight of time gone by, the fragments of moments we let slip like sand between careless fingers.

Regret lingers like an unspoken truth, a shadow cast by the light of what could have been. We try to grasp it, to undo it, to reweave the threads of yesterday, but the loom has turned, and the past is a river that only flows forward.

Time was never ours to hold. It was a fleeting metaphor, a borrowed grace we misused with the arrogance of eternity. Hours became currency we spent too freely, years became chapters we didn’t bother to read.

But the clock does not pause.
It does not mourn. It ticks with indifference, a steady cadence reminding us of the gift we still possess: the present.

If the past is a lesson and the future a promise, then this moment is the altar on which we lay our resolve. To forgive ourselves. To treasure the seconds. To write poetry where there was silence.

For though time does not turn back, it offers something greater
a chance to begin again.
And in this beginning, perhaps,
we can finally learn to live.





                                            @Erennwrites

Trying to force the natural sequence of nature is like slamming your head against a board of nails. Acceptance of who we are in our own divinity,  instead of playing dress up and pretending to be someone we are not.

You can’t wear Prada, drink the richest bourbon, smoke fancy cigars, and do the finest line of ******* and compare yourself to the man.  The boy, mimicking a man.  
You see, he wears Levi’s, smells of cheap whiskey, smokes whatever is free,  and writes about a life that once was, before the pain.  The infallible days of clarity.

You can’t walk a poor mans path, with your rich arrogance.  There isn’t enough money to buy this man’s soul.  His story, unfolds daily and reeks of a heavy burden, lack of that deep intimacy, lack of hope.  Yet, he is rich in character, rich in wisdom, rich in reflection and worth so much more than the shell of a human pretending to be what he never will be.

The man’s book embodies thousands of pages,  well read.  The boys, empty pages of a life never lived.

Carry on…nothing to see here

My favorite Irish poet
has a poem
called Chugat.

Which means "To you".

And my favorite three lines maybe ever written

translate to

"salvage your heart
never say I left you
say I drowned".

It basically describes my thoughts on love.