Lay your hands on my cold and fragile bottle;
hold the cork and twist me-
gently--
slowly--
don’t stop until you hear me pop;
set my spirit free and I go astray-
into your soul so weary;
close your eyes, smell the earth in me-
herbs, tobaccos, vanillas, trees-
savor the aroma of heavens;
now pour me down in the empty glass-
of love and affection;
touch me with your lonely tongue;
indulge my warmth-
wrapping your delicate heart;
little sips-
after
little sips;
until-
you lose control.

even broken words
can point to the horizon
indicating the wholeness
of the swollen moon
as it hangs low and heavy
tumbling along in the
fullness of its cycle

even broken words
can point upward
indicating the infinite
in the cathedral skies
as translucent layers of
impossible number
and impossible shades of blue
together compose the deepest color
of the symphonic midday sky

even broken words
can heal

In a forest, tucked away
hidden between padded ferns
and angered flowers,
whose roots grew wider
then the seas,
was a heart crossed
of all the thorns
she didn't need.

A single green leaf that fell from the stout tree
With a patchwork of veins on a green canvas
And beauty known, not singly, but together
As are words without a craftsman, alas!

I know not such class as to weave ‘ere words,
For that you need a magician, who is but quiet,
Mesmerised in words, for words are all he knows
Then society falls for him and christens him a poet.

He is but human, but has his way with words
He gathers them together, and stacks them like dominoes
And as the first word is spoken, and the first domino toppled,
We are trapped in their fine stratagem, like a band of coyotes.

Their words are nor too harsh, nor too dulcet,
Nor too real, nor too dreamy,
Nor are they hypothetical, nor factual,
But delicate, like a single green leaf that fell from the stout tree.

Hope had aileron.
Deceitful extensions.

"Oh I know"
She nodded slow


fluttering in her chest
It grasped her neck
Left her feeling hollow.

What is an adolescent?
Stare at the faded walls of my old bedroom,
Breathe in the air of my old home,
And I’m a kid again.

What is a grown-up?
Look up at the sky full of stars,
Savour its familiar vastness,
And I’m small again.

What is a professional?
Come back to my old practice room,
Find those sweaty shirts and socks,
And I’m a trainee again.

What is old age?
Rock on the rocker like rocking a swing,
Stretch out my arms to catch the wind,
And I’m young again.

What is the world?
Blue and green, some say, inanimate,
But it lives and breathes for me, changing,
And I’m alive again.