Deep in the woods of Laching bay
Behind green drapes of whispering trees
Lives a fantastic creature,
A delightful friend and teacher.

He has nestled there for centuries
Watching the world pass through reptile eyes
He is as calm as a setting sun,
As reliable as a rising one.

With scales that gleam and glisten,
A rippling rainbow when light finds him.
When Jumaja speaks, everyone listens

Down a long spine a row of spikes stretches
Brimstone and emerald crowns,
Legacies of his enchanted kingdom.
He may tell you in a soft voice, as deep as the ocean,
How it is to be the last of a kind.

No one can know your pain
Not nearly as well as yourself
But the rope won't take it away
It just gives it to someone else

Running from the
chipped paint and
peeling wallpaper.
The exposure.
The naked vulnerability.
Chasing dreams
that scare me
only to find grounding
in fear.

The dripping faucet
was acid on my skin
in streams down my face.
A feeling of warmth
that burned.
Scarred.
A sudden change.
Please, not again.

The ceiling caves in —

I can never show anything
but the reflection of a life
that is broken.
No matter how the claws
shred me
from underneath my
own skin…

Trapped in escape.

the dragons will fly through you
as they flew through me

Thor's lightning rods,
blue bolts in the
valleys of gods.

Myths of the mercantile
sirens that smile
beware
' there be dragons '

After the monsoon
prior to the forenoon on
the third day
and with the Angels
working on the Ark
I was
late as usual where fate as usual
played its hand.

But it was in limbo
between here and
a place I go to be alone ,
a place I am at home in
where I met the tsunami that
almost drowned me
and threw me up upon a shore
which wasn't on any map that I
had seen before.

Can you hear them roar?
waves that ferry dragons to
this shore where I'm sure that this
time I shall not escape,

fate as usual has plan B for me
I wake from slumber to see
the dream like any other dream
was just a dream
and for some time I shall
be free from the dragons that fly
through you into bolts of me
in the blue.

I'm seeing a lot of poems,
about poets, their love and immortality.

I've also seen a lot poems,
about poets, their anger and immortality.

I'm yet to see a poem by a poet,
devoid of love, anger, heartbreak or jealousy.

Because, hey, we are after all people,
people, who feel love, anger, heartbreak and jealousy.

So bear with us for a while,
before you decide if your presence in my poem makes you laugh, cry, fume or smile...

Keep distance, the Snail said,
I don't feel safe with humans around
and my pace makes me so vulnerable.

He took a deep breath and added,
do you ever feel my toil
to move from place to place
while the winds blow in gusts
and the world passes by like a storm?

My minutes tick like your hours
and hours days
as I climb the mountains of walls
cover furlongs of ground
rest and restart
never really knowing
where the path ends.

And you only add to my woes.

Your prank of a kick
rolls me back and down
all the way
to beyond from where I began.

A teardrop gathered in his opal eyes.

But it really doesn't matter,
a smile broke through the tears,

I see with all your pace
you're so far from happiness.

I had been dreaming
about eating bruised peaches
that grew from a tree
by the river, its water
thick and sweet as sap.

I thought I saw an old woman
shaking her dustmop,
but it was only the moon
and stardust in the dark
that never stops.

In the fields
there was something barren
like a journey
and echoes of salt
sprinkling on a table
with food laid out for a wake.

The fog from the dream
by the river was smothering;
I was suffocating lying there
where it is said a young mother
once walked into the water
with the pockets of her dress
stuffed full of smooth rocks.

I woke when I heard
shouting that tore out the light
as night came flying by
like a bird dressed for a feast
wearing his finest black feathers.