I am stuck in limbo
awaiting tragedy,
as a leaf awaits a gust
to tear it free from its branch.

I am shrouded in stillness;
a blissful peace.
I will look back on these days and think
"I did not know what I had"

Not far from now,
life will twist into a cascade
of irreversible losses.
I can feel it stirring,
an everlasting sorrow,
like the wind kicking leaves at my feet.

I will change forever.

Few things in life
feel as divine as
forgiveness.

To be told
that I am worthy
of a new start,
feels miraculous.

For all my mistakes,
I am not without hope.

I confess,
I do not know if I will make it.
The road ahead is long.
My time here is short.

I have heard
that the end of each journey
is just the start of another.
I hold these words closely
as I walk into the encroaching night.

I no longer love you,
but in recollection
I would still use
as many words as before.

A heaving dog struggles to its feet.
Streaks of
the sun,
egg yolk,
lemonade,
coalesce in foam.
I look it in the eye
as it limps away.

awake,
i drift about.

the touch of moonlight
imbues all
with a haziness.

everything is dream-like.
it seems as though
to grasp for something
is to reach through it.
the world truly is ethereal,
what was seconds ago
may no longer be in a few moments.
do you know of those
who walked the same steps
that i now trace?

how loosely put together it all seemed.
looking back on it now,
to have been together
at the same place
was a chance of a lifetime.

i ponder,
how many more lives should i live
to meet them all again
in that same place.

i worry, the longer i live
the more of them i shall forget.
moments pressed out of memory
like the coming morning
erasing the night.

i spend more time
thinking of writing poems
than writing poetry.

it strikes me as rather odd,
as most things require only
the act of doing it for it to be done.
paradoxically,
when one thinks about what should be written,
one can no longer grasp
what it is they had even intended to write.

and so i pick small details;
that is all i can do.
and i layer them, one atop another.
perhaps among my many poems
is the one single poem
i had meant to write.

my favourite description of love
comes from a curt confession from bukowski:
"love is a dog from hell".

what more does one want to know?
if one has felt love,
and i mean,
really felt it;
suffered for it;
felt the brunt of despair;
known the sleepless nights;
the restless nights;
the doubt;
the belief;
the constant flip flop
between the two;
between heartbreak and happiness;
the will to endure all sadness;
the knowledge that such strength
will only bring about sadness;
the horror of seeing in real time
love end
from the eyes of another;
to have been crushed by a weight
which could leave you without air
for years
and yet oddly
still have the presence of mind
to look back on it with tenderness;
to know that lust and love
are entirely separate;
and one needs only a memory
to keep the embers alive.

then i believe
a dog from hell
sums it up rather nicely.

if men are divided
as either
sheep or wolves,
then i already know
what is to become of me.

when my time comes,
when the slaughter is nigh,
i will stick out my neck
and tell them,
do it properly.

i am too tired
to do otherwise.
i find it preferable
to end this farce;
life will go on,
with or without sheep;
with or without wolves.

how i have
wracked my brain
on how to write
a simple poem
about a tree
lit by the moon.

nature is writhe
with such gentle beauty.
and yet
i cannot even start to
entice its essence
to settle as
a line or two on paper.
where beauty begins,
i cannot say.

to write of beauty
is to remember a dream;
to recall a thought
only half way through.
i cannot describe in words
that which is before me.
all i know is
that it is beautiful.

i have written
hundreds of poems.
in reading them over,
i find that
i have written
only a little bit of
poetry.

the passing of time,
the seasons,
of scenery
and people,
have scarred me;
embittered me.
i am now a more rigid person.

i dismiss my older writing as
pretentious;
uninspired;
misguided.
i wonder if
i should suffer the same verdict
when i,
once more,
re-evaluate.

in light of such a thought,
i marvel at
how little poetry
can be squeezed from a single life.

The pale blue
that filters through
my closed curtains;
the sting of light
as it pries open
my eyelids,
one at a time;
today, i am alive.

I could write
on emotion alone.
Through bitterness,
I sought beauty.
With rage,
I expressed
the torrent within.
All was aflame,
all had burned brightly.

But now,
it is naught but a flicker.
I pass time quietly,
as the ash of past emotions
blanket the landscape with grey.
I am tired.
I fear I may
never recover.

Let them be
as petals of a flower
scattered by the breeze.

If a poem
cannot be read
by for whom it's for,
then the heart asks,
what is it for.

I know only
how to dream.

The worlds
I have quietly
put together
are not so different
than my life now.
But there,
everything is laced
with moonlight;
a soft glow.

I am free to indulge
every detail.
How many times
have I imagined
how the wood
of a window sill
would feel against my finger tips?

What had burned
turned to ash.
In the end,
even a violent blaze
turns to nothing.
Which flame lasts forever?

I give ashes
as proof of what once was.
Judge me, as you like,
but know the dust before you
was once with form;
warm and bright.

If I am to be lost,
then let it be;
I shall be as
a grain of sand
in the currents of the ocean.

I reach for words,
to claw back from the depths
of a terrible
listlessness.
But I cannot find them,
I cannot even write.

I wait
for spring;
the petals
on a fleeting breeze;
the scent of grass
made soft by the warm sun;
the hymn of life
started by the first birdsongs of the morning;
the faint hum
of beating wings
as a bee lands gently
on the pistil of a flower;
the lukewarm night
where the moon peers curiously
at the yellow-orange tinge of sunrise.

It takes me
perhaps a few minutes,
at most,
to write a poem.

In the brief instant
between
creation and publication,
I am convinced
that this poem cannot be
improved.

But note,
it is never the claim,
that the poem is
any good.

I write
so that I may express
what I had genuinely felt
for a few moments.

A stiff breeze
brushes against
flushed cheeks,
chattering teeth
and naked hands;
a winter night.

There will be others
after you.

But
none are
as you are
to me.

I glance at
an empty seat
an unanswered text
and a cold cup of coffee.

You didn't have to say yes
to a date.

The most stalwart of loves
go unfulfilled;
a brilliant,
unfettered affection,
purified
by enduring heartache.

They are as
stubborn leaves in Autumn,
clinging to a branch.
As soon as the season is finished,
they shall be pruned without exemption,
yet they persist bitterly.

To see you,
as you see me,
is a difficult art.
To repress it all,
to paint over
all the vivid colours
you inspire in me
is a labour of love.

All I'd like
is to see you
as you see me.
But to hear your voice
is to fall for all the same spells;
of all things concerning you,
I am defenceless.

Will the passing years
dull the yearning
of a heavy heart?
Perhaps,
but how helpless
I feel,
how lonely.

Lucid dreams
are my only bridge
to those an insurmountable
distance away.

There is no ship
that can breech
the barrier of time.
There is no ticket
destined for yesterday.

To those of my past,
if only I could impart
a fraction of
the tenderness
that swells from my heart.
I remember you all
with a special fondness,
one that can only be
forged by
lingering regret.

The moment in passing
and the
moment incoming,
smudges into the other.
Time blends effortlessly with itself;
hours melt into one another,
days are indistinguishable,
but the difference between
the past and present
is as evident
as a knife in the gut.

One must wonder
if pain
is the burden of memory,
that to preserve the past,
one must pay dearly at the present.

Every ship
leaving the port,
are each
a metaphor.

To the
brave who
embark,
how often
do you cast
a backward gaze?

To those
who depart
for other shores,
I think of you
daily.
Hourly.

When shall it be my turn
to cast a backward gaze
on those I leave behind?

I was fine
with waiting;
the breeze
of melancholy
carries with it
the distant smell
of blossoming flowers.

If waiting means
I can spend my time
imagining those flowers,
whose nectar,
whose petals,
entrance me with such splendour,
then I do not mind waiting.

At times, I envy
those who chose
to pluck from the ground
the flowers they had cherished.
But I...
Alas.

How I long for
a past
I did not have.

A fish
that chokes
on water;
A poet
who struggles
with words.

I am as snow in warmth of dawn,
I cannot linger
for too long.

By writing love poems,
I have learned
that I only know how
to express
sadness,
not love.

To eat alone
is to think
of another.

My heart is in
a terrible state,
so I choose
to roam this city,
to ward off boredom
and the questions
I ask myself
about you
before I sleep.

A love
that blossoms
like a flower
before a storm.

Will you see it
before it is stripped
of its petals?
Before it is trampled
and ripped out by its roots?

A flower
that blooms
before a drought,
will wilt
without having
lived.

To think of you,
is to have such
thoughts.

Should the leaves of a tree
feel embittered
that they must one day
expire in Autumn?
Likewise,
should I harbour
resentment
if I am to
fade into memory?

At dawn,
I comforted myself
by saying
there is still time.

At twilight,
I know
it had not been so.

To seek refuge
in the time that is left
is folly;
better to have done
than to have
thought of doing.

I am tempted
to bear my heartache
as pure bitterness,
but
I know that there is
a blissful sweetness
that is
just as accessible.

How shall I carry
my memory of you?
Should your image
be framed in my
petty bitterness?

For you,
I know only
tenderness.
For you,
there is only love.

These passing moments
strike me as
most beautiful,
for even I can tell
that the present
will blossom
into an evocative,
eternal bitterness.

I cherish this
fruitless heartache
with renewed ardor,
as it is the only proof
I had ever loved.

The starfish
must throw out
its stomach
to digest
its food.

In this sense,
the starfish and I
are similar.

To learn,
I must
throw out my brain;
it is only through
foolishness
that I truly
begin to understand.
But how many lessons,
once learned,
can be used?

If I could only capture
the moon,
stars,
ocean,
mountains
with blue peaks
and the green
of summer
on a
sunny day,

I could convey
the peace,
the despair,
of every absence.

To which direction
does the
wind blow?
How many have I met
for the last time?

A timid flower
comes to full bloom
under the brush
of the summer breeze.

Similarly,
I have blossomed
by the warmth
of another's heart.

Each passing day
is a step down
an ever diverging
trail.

Is it useless
to wonder
if these winding paths
ever cross?

How many
will see me again?
How many
promises will be
kept?

Between the moment that passes
and the moment to come
I am stuck
in the immeasurable present.

It is a dance,
A longing
Set to the rhythm,
The nuance of
Furtive glances,
Unspoken words,
Chance encounters,
Innumerable coincidences
And a terrible solitude
Of the soul.

As these things accumulate,
It begins
Like embers given life
By a soft breeze.

But the second it is touched
It turns to sand
And slips through
The cracks of the heart.
One figures out
That something so fragile
Cannot exist.

Cherished memories
Rendered
Shameful,
To be suffered
In private.

I have known
no loneliness
like that of
a Saturday night.

My ceiling is
an off white.

I do not dare
go back to sleep.

I am awake
and in the realm
where you are real.

My thoughts
whirl about
like a sudden
gust.

You are
to me,
as the restless wind
is to the
petals of a flower;

fleeting,
out of reach,
ungraspable.

We are all capable
of blissful tenderness,
we are all
lovers
waiting for Spring,
to bloom with
the flowers.