I've thought deep and true for an idea,
Of a topic I can center my poem on.
There was none that surfaced,
So none shall it be.

No weight of subject to anchor us down,
No limits to hinder, no thoughts to drown.
In the vast expanse where stillness is known,
The heart of nothingness is brightly shown.

Akin to the sound of one hand clapping,
Like raging winds in the eye of the storm,
Let us contemplate on nothing,
Let us define the absence of form.

A blank canvas for something to exist,
The absence for the heart to grow fond,
It is a silence so deep, where echoes are drawn,
The root of the void where all things are gone.

Without, none, nothing, doesn't exist,
Synonyms, or a sentence wrongly punctuated.
One thing is for certain: this poem's been fun.
A topic to discuss, indeed I have... none.

I cannot hear you,

only the waves, wind sometimes --


but nowhere your voice.

In your dreams
I draped down the curtains of my mind
and in your thoughts I hung high
the light of the morning sun
before you breathe
your last sleep of night
remember my shadow
by the window of your heart
hold me close
before our lives whisper passed

I want to snore
softly into the pillow
toss and turn a few times
wrapping myself tightly with my arms

I want to snuggle
under the weight of the blanket
sheltered from the cold rain
beating the streets outside

I don't want to have that peeing dream
filled with relief, warmth and regret
Neither do I want to share the bed
with anyone
not today, not this time.

I prefer to be stuck in the dream
where the twins are constantly giggling,
and running after each other,
their big sister, having her hair undone by her mum.
And I, looking in from the doorway
always present in their daily lives.

People celebrate

the astronauts on the moon --


who'd like to join in.

The empty chair may

not be my father's chair, but --


I do miss him now.

I never thought about love when I thought about home. never felt the pulse of it.

the sun kisses my side of the planet but never touches my skin. I try to twist the knife inside me,

write lines that gut and bleed

but not every lived moment draws pain and demands witness. not every morning

clothes itself in deep indigo and creeps in on lithe legs to sit on my chest. my breath

no longer entwines with yours — you with your feet on the ground,

rhymes and rhythms are all the same to you. you move like you know you belong,

like the very air around you

rushes to meet your limbs. and yours met mine with a reverberating heartbeat.

I tell you I never think about love when I think about home, but

to me there is no difference between going home and rushing across the state to you.

and when they start to pull apart, both moving in opposing orbits

your corner of the planet a stranger to my house,

I’ll call you, listen to your voice wax poetic about new love,

and in the silence that follows I’ll ask you,

“Is it cold there, too?”

If my days were fanned out in front of me,
like a magician's playing cards,
I couldn’t pick one, just one, any one
that was better for your absence.