As soft as you blow
You cleanse my outer energy with calming hands
Remove all unwanted toxic vibe that attached every time I pass humans by
Negative thoughts will never be effective when in the right environment
You make away to swivel in motion
Circulated every and each muscle
To ease into relaxation, stay away from radiation
Takes knowledge from self, stay away from technology
Manifest your upcoming, positives vibes only
Is that a glow that I see?
Ah, your Aura is showing.

My writing desk
My chair
A slap to the face
Fingers running through my hair
I will words
Which refuse to appear
I will
That which I will always fear
That only the quill knows how to be sincere
Unbuttoned shirt
A battered sternum
Under the hurt
The heart
Blooms the poisonous laburnum
Beating like a drum
I insert the quill
Holding in
Until it's had its fill of yellow ink
I do not think but write
Numbed but the words appear alright
I repeat until the flowers pass their bloom
And blackened fill the room
My throat is dry
My writing desk is wet
By my laburnum blood and sweat
Time to rest
To sew up my open chest
To sleep and in the morning feel again
Anatomical garden
Quill pen

You can see it in a drowned man’s eyes
In the pawn shop window I just passed
Frosty truths that come to the table uninvited

The poet and the truth
Face to face, one whistles, one listens
The napkins fill with cognitive snapshots

The poet drowns in words
Just wanting to say something
Or hear it said at all

The dying words from a poet’s mouth
Blow about in autumn color
Drifts and piles that shape the years of practice

What's worth saying has to be said by someone
So a poet goes looking and would suppose
That words rubbed together right would produce

Word museum sentences ripe with meaning
Phantasms haunting great books and minds
Torches lighting the way for all

The poet takes aim and fires
At the fog of meaning
He tugs at God’s coat tail

In the beginning the sky was cold butter,
hard and riddled with kernels of corn,
which, as the world heated, popped:
And thus the clouds were born.

A tiny daring spider built a gorgeous circular web
on my window pane. It's in my view
again and again. I reserved
that spot as my look-out-to-think pane. But now
the spider has taken it, dare I complain.

Rain, wind and sun have blessed the spider’s dwelling,
as I watch him hide in the web’s corner wrapped in silk
and pouncing on his prey. He clearly is not scared
of me and uses the glass as god’s grace.

I ask him everyday-
But why that pane?
Do you have calendars or time constraints?
Are you in bliss, sadness, or pain?

He finally came, in my dream last night,
Dressed in a beautiful white silky robe, very bright,
and said in a husky voice-

Just like you, I am the creator’s creation,
Here to fully blossom in this incarnation ,
But you and I very different,
All life is relative, it's an illusion.

It can’t be said
in simple words;
it can’t be shown
with a handful
of glitter bombs,

The complexity,
the majesty,
the wonder-ful-ishness
of magical nights
and fireflies.

Reach out wide
into the space
of a billion
no a trillion
moments in time

And grasp an
infinitesimal
fragment of
Creation’s pure
peculiar offerings.

The mountain grows much slower than your perception of the mountain growing taller, as the dynamics of the sea, which sculpts the earth beneath your feet, speaks—summoning the breeze: isn't it surreal, living on God's pottery wheel?