When you are alone,
the internal fire
smolders hotter.
And all you have
is your mind
to stoke the embers,
those genuine memories
of desire.

I cannot discover
and I cannot find
the proper words
to express my mind,
all my thoughts
flood out to you
and I wonder if you're
thinking of me too,
an empty page
and pen in hand
this could only be
No mans land.

They call it war of peace,
Yet the pebbles on the road shudder with violence,

They call it war of solutions,
Yet people are running out of options,

Less a neighbourhood everyday,
Less a family every hour,

The call it the war for second chances,
Yet the brushes of bruises never dissapear,

They call it a war of retribution,
Yet this is nothing but false accusation,

They call it a war of victory,
Yet time is drowning in misery,

They call it war of overcoming fears,
Yet dread thickens our atmosphere;
nightmare, now inevitable future,

They call it a war for another sunrise,
Yet the blood on lillies  seems to thicken,

They call it a war of success,
Oh please; tell that to the oppressed

Time does not exist
Or so I am told
An artificial instrument
created by man
As it turns
the Earth shrugs it's shoulders
She doesn't know what to think either

Time is not linear
That is what I hear
Everything has already happened
and is happening at the same time

So...wait.

I imagine it like one gigantic explosion
Our lives play out
Everything happens separately and at once
My ten year old self and my eighty year old self are one in the same
I have heard that

There are some people I wish I could talk to again
The ten year old smiles and continues the conversation
I sit here and think that if everything has happened and is happening all at the same time

Then

I am still having those conversations
with Living Ghosts

I go to the door often.
Night and summer. Crickets
lift their cries.
I know you are out.
You are driving
late through the summer night.

I do not know what will happen.
I have no claim on you.
I am one star
you have as guide; others
love you, the night
so dark over the Azores.

You have been working outdoors,
gone all week. I feel you
in this lamp lit
so late. As I reach for it
I feel myself
driving through the night.

I love a firmness in you
that disdains the trivial
and regains the difficult.
You become part then
of the firmness of night,
the granite holding up walls.

There were women in Egypt who
supported with their firmness the stars
as they revolved,
hardly aware
of the passage from night
to day and back to night.

I love you where you go
through the night, not swerving,
clear as the indigo
bunting in her flight,
passing over two
thousand miles of ocean.