And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

Four padded paws and a cold wet nose. An anxious bark and shedding fur. A desire to run and chase a ball. A tail that wags and an apatite for chewing on old shoes. Loyal to a fault and devoted to the end. A neglected dog is mans best friend. So when you see one in a shelter cold and alone, think twice about not taking a dog home. Some just need a little love and attention to become the best friend you will ever see. So when you hear one bark, its likely the dog is saying rescue me.

I doubt
material wealth
means anything
in the afterlife
on the off chance
that I'm wrong
bury me
with my books
and my plastic owl.

As days knock upon April's door,

Soon March, my friend, will be no more,

We cannot stop the shifting sands,

As time we cannot so command.

The greatest irony of humanity
Is that we fight wars
For peace