Dear future whoever you are,

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry if I can't seem to say the words "I love you" without stumbling over the words, or saying them really fast and running away, or them sounding stiff and forced like I don't really mean them, because I can assure you

I do

But you see the thing is

My family was never big on "I love you's"

Or affection for that matter, you see

We prefer "make sure the doors locked" being thrown over a shoulder as it rushes out the door

Or the ever so entertaining " put your seatbelt on, before I decide to test my breaks" as we are driving down a road

And just let me apologize in advance if you ever tell me that you, love me

And I freeze

It's not from shock I swear, okay maybe it is, a little bit, depending on the situation

But its probably mostly due to not being used to hearing it

I mean in the fifteen years I have under my belt so far I can't recall ever  hearing them said to me

So forgive me if I freeze, and then give an awkwardly delayed " I love you" back

And just know this

No matter how awkward or delayed or stuttered or fast it's said

I only say those three words when I mean them

And it's hard for me to say them

It really is

So dear future whoever you are

Please understand

I may not have heard them much

But I understand the meaning behind them

And just know

I love you, too

The secrets I keep
are deep.

I'd say
it's better to keep it at bay.

But you insist
And now you can't resist

The girl who was once a stranger
is now a danger
To You.

You fly
You blind
You poison
You ****
You are just dust in the wind

Poetry is art
      Poetry is visual

Poets can see the words

The way a play write
Can see the actors on stage
       with every line he writes

The way a musician
Can see the notes dance on air
       with every key she plays

The way a sculptor
Can see the final sculpture
       with every cut of their knife

The way a painter
Can see the waves of the ocean
        with every stroke of blue
                  on a blank canvas

Poetry is visual
      Poetry is art
            Poets are artists
       They write **from the heart

In the shadow of Everest people are dying
Crushed in a chaos embirthed from beneath,
Emerged as destructor of temple and Taos,
Emerged as an innocent killer... bequeathed.
History crumbles as heavens roar mightily
Ghorka is dead in an avalanche of rock,
Beggars and potentates crushed  in the brickfall
Dharahara’s fall leaves men gaping in shock.
Shuddering mountains in avalanche of free fall
Wails of the stricken as quaking defiles,
Gold topped pagodas and statue of ancients,
Sculpture of lions now a rubble in piles.
Khathmandu in the clasp of calamity
Nightmarish forces arisen from deep,
Grasping the earth in their grip of profanity
Monstrously tearing the bedrock from sleep.
A techtonic ****** of Asia by India
Nepal’s Himalayas ****** to the sky,
Inconsequential, this plight of humanity
Nature proceeds as poor Nepalese die.**

M.
ANZAC Day 25 April 2015