These bridges you have thus built
and those you keep on building
are the ones we can always cross
from which pebbles we can toss
and watch their ripples downstream
crossing over into our once upon dream

Oh, to remember such
unspoiled kinship with the divine,
where even the wind was a companion
and silence spoke in full sentences.

Perhaps this poem isn’t just
a backward glance but a gentle invitation—
to return, not in time, but in spirit,
to that meadow of soulfulness
where love was once our native tongue.

Some part of us still listens
to the rustling leaves, hoping
the gods haven’t stopped calling.

globe
not a stage a planet

bruised planks orbiting a sun made of soliloquy

audience as constellation—
each cough, a satellite of meaning

Rome burned here twice daily, except Sundays

and Hamlet rose and fell like a tide without moon

this was the world entire— conflagration fuelled
                                        by candlelight and gesture

call the rain
name it— not for mercy or for penance.
let it seep through cracked stone,

drawn by what we almost remembered.

no supplication. no altar. only canopy. only air.
it falls, scrubbing silence off the last clean wall.
we call, again— not to keep it, but to let it go.

And then there is ‘bear pottery’
farming salmon adjacent to a bear sanctuary:

while waiting for spawning season
as the ice begins to melt,
those that have unhibernated
are whiling the time away
at the potter’s wheel….