Words find their way.
Hearts speak through fingers.
Reading eyes are mirrored in
Ink systematically spilled in
The shape of sounds
And minds.

A pen resting on the table is a
Flatline.
A blank piece of paper merely
Dead, compressed wood.
Don't deny us your genius.
There is no try in poetry.

I cannot do this
With you.
I have nothing to run from.

You dream of escape.
A way out.
New, honeyscented beginning.

I like it here.
The bees all know
My name.

I remember the ocean.
You tasted of it.

The sparrow and the crow.
Such music.

When we still had love, I'd listen to
Heartbreaking tunes and picture us

Apart.
I won.

Losing can be so ****
Beautiful.

These are days of change.
Eggshell cracks,
Sun rising differently.

Sometimes I put my ear to
The ground and listen.
Heartbeat choirs of

Our unborn children.
Seeds of poets.
Write love; not war.

Holy water into wine. Beer from barley.
Walking on the roof of a brewery,
Contemplating how Jimmy Fallon's
Finger never really seems to heal.

Combine harvester headlights dance
On the living room walls
As I lean back on my white IKEA
Sofa, tracing long hairs and

Fingerprints of lovers gone,
Wondering why I chose such a
Revealing colour.
Suppose the transparency matches

That of my soul's lining.
Holy water into wine.
Fields of gold now liquid painkillers
Slurring the voices in my head that

Pick fights with my heart over
Insignificant issues.
I lip synch to the music of my
Neglected talents and the memories

Of inspiration attached.
Bullets like knuckles rapping, rapping
At my empty chamber
Door.

Every finger I ever broke
Was from typing or
Punching
Walls.

Sometimes I put on the mask of
Poet, and pretend to be writing  
For as long as it takes to fool
The empty pages.

Fireplace altar.
Cathedral dome horizons.
Icon constellations.  

Snowfall prayers, solitaire twilight
Forest tree stump confessions.
Every shadow a priest.

Every infant an angel.
Willow wind psalmsong;  
Praising the Everything.

No heaten forcefully converted.
No sinner's soul purgatory held.
Heaven is when

I close my eyes. Heaven too,
When they're open. Preaching to the
Choir of me.

Church of One.
Hell on Earth. Worldly Paradise.
Yin to the Yang.

I feel the pain within it all.
The pleasure as well. Poor
Beautiful, ugly world.

Single disciple walking. I'll focus
On my humble
Feet.

Hey, what have we here?
For me? What did you draw?  
A little dream?
That's really nice.

I love the way you have coloured  
In the lines that connect the
Hearts of friends you
Have yet

To make, to your own.
They may still be stick
Figures, but I sure
Get the idea.

Can I really keep this?
I'll put it on my fridge, so I
Can see it every day.
Thank you, sweet little teacher.