I have lost my name many times
in the wind of unknowing.
I walked through the orchard of hours,
but the sweet, fallen fruit whispered lies,
and the trees turned their faces
from the hot Summer sun.

Nothing is straight in this world
not the road we take,
not the reason,
not the prayer softly spoken at dawn
with a cracked voice.
The truth, it seems,
is always playing hard to get.

I have lifted many stones
with trembling hands
stones heavy with silence,
heavy with secrets,
with the weeping of soldier ants,
with the old breath of forgotten earth.
And I have asked them:
Where is the truth I seek?
Where are the answers to the great unknown?
They do not answer me
but the dust beneath them sings
like the gods of old,
trying to let the cat out of the bag
in a language no longer spoken.

I am becoming
an old map with no legend,
a cathedral with broken bells
and shattered glass of color,
a man whose mind has frayed with time
from too many full moons
and too little meaning,
burning the candle at both ends
just to light a way that won’t stay lit.

Love arrives
as a feather,
and leaves as a flame.
Hope kneels,
then rises again
wearing the mask of hunger.
Even the stars
change their language each night.
The constellations lie
like old lovers,
talking out of both sides of their mouths,
promising never to fade.

The world is full of hands
reaching for answers
in waters that do not speak.
We walk on broken splitners of questions,
kiss mouths
that know only forgetting.
We carry the scent
of yesterday’s confessions
on the hems of our thoughts
ghosts we keep sweeping under the rug.

Memory is not a drawer
it is a sky,
a sky that swallows its own birds.
We remember
with the pulse,
with the scar,
with the wineglass
we keep filling
just to feel the weight
of something red
trying to drown our sorrows,
though they’ve long since learned to swim.

And still, I search
with feet torn from too much wandering,
with eyes drunk on paradox,
with a soul that rises each morning
to peel the sun
from behind the curtains
of confusion.
I’ve gone down too many rabbit holes
to trust the surface anymore.

I do not want perfect answers.
Give me the truth
hidden like a seed
inside the bitter olive.
Let me find it
in the sweat of the laborer,
in the laugh of a woman
who remembers sorrow
but still sings
wearing her heart on her sleeve,
but never missing a beat.

I will go on
lifting the stones,
knocking on the walls of the unseen,
breathing poems
into the mouths of ghosts.

Because even if this life is known,
it is a riddle carved into mist
a puzzle with missing pieces
hidden in plain sight.
I will walk this path slow
barefoot and burning, thought-drawn
until the truth finds me,
or I find it,
and it cracks open
like a pomegranate in the sun
the heart of the matter
finally laid bare.

I am an idol,
For those looking to find fickle peace,
After years of grueling pain.

I am the title,
To a collection of poems,
Featuring the every raw creation.

I am nothing compared to everything else,
But my creations can be something.

Ancient empires echo here,
In deep space,
The sounds of far history,
Bleeds in near.

Energy traces from long ago,
Microwaves left from genesis,
Far in the star sea lies a trail to God,
Or an omen of future death.

How to find inspiration?
Google says;
-Try new routines.
-Expose yourself to new environments.
-Start engaging in activities to stimulate your brain.
(EA, Connecting with people, Connecting with nature, Brain Teasers Magazine 1937.)

I say,
Google is a robot.
Trying it’s best to understand,
Lofty human ideals,
When it was programmed to be down to earth.
The real secret sauce of poetry,
Journaling, noveling, shortstorying,
Is living.
I like new books,
Under new skies,
Trying to adapt to a new life.
You may like storm clouds rolling over mountain tops,
Or a crowded dance floor playing Spanish house music,
Neil likes punk rock.
When you’re out for inspiration,
The best place to go,
Is a place you know,
Or a place you’ve never been.

Many don't know the moral of Vincent Van Gogh.
We as artists don't mind the pain,
Of cutting off an ear.
We only notice how it hurts,
When our gift is rejected.

There's all to win,
When giving your all,
Yet when giving your all,
There's a great chance you fall.
Pride wasn't made a sin, of itself.
It was deemed evil,
When we witnessed the destruction,
From a broken sense of pride.

We give as much as we can,
I do as much as I can,
A perfect person.
After preaching against it I know she was right,
I am only a hypocrite,
Still searching for that perfection,
Has left me to become only a suggestion.

Barn wood creaked
under a blistered roof.
Cicadas rasped like torn zippers,
gnats frenzied in heat-stung hush.

Pappaw’s tools stood like deacons,
rakes, blades, shovels,
a rust-bitten vise
clung to the bench like a wounded jaw,
bolted there decades before I was named.
Its grip slick from the sweat
of every hand that disappeared.
The dust smelled of grease
and something sweeter,
like old rain
hidden in burlap.

Out back,
the wheelbarrow slept
beside the seed spreader,
its mouth open as if to confess.
I built stories in those shadows,
called it a castle,
called it a ship,
called it the edge of the world
before I knew what endings meant.

I was a boy
who heard grief in hinges,
saw narrowed eyes
in the heads of railroad spikes,
spoke aloud to heroic hammers
like they might answer.
I named everything
before I knew
what not to love.

It wasn’t make-believe.
It was how the world arrived to me,
in stories,
in gestures,
in objects
aching to speak.

The *** leaned inward,
as if listening.
The seed spreader waited
like it still had something to offer.
The wheelbarrow, tilted,
cradling sleeping rain
and maybe me,
once.

Your demons don’t play well with mine,
They bite and they bruise and entwine.
Yours weaponize tears,
Mine whisper, come near.
The chaos is purely divine.

Yours gasp for the rush of cool air,
Mine drown in your scent, flesh, and stare.
Yours vanish like shame;
Mine burn all the same,
Still lit by the hunger we bear.

We drift toward escape, dark and slow,
They bloom with our secrets and grow.
Yours pull at my seams;
Mine knot in your dreams.
A dance only demons could know.