On the left side is a small stream

and on the right is the main road

that way when i stretch out both hands

i can grasp the clarity and the high speed

i tend to look to the left

without thinking

there are extra clouds

the stream never seems

tired of replicating clarity

siding with purity.

Nor angel, nor man, nor brute,
Nor body, mind, nor he nor she,
Before the sun, the moon, the earth,
Before the stars or comets free,
Before even time has had its birth
and the Causation’s law,
there was the immortal dream of love
that embraced everything.

I forget the way to fill



an empty space.

How do I create
when all I've done is erase?

I read a poem of loss:
The loss of a sibling, a child,
a friend.
I shed a tear and thought to myself,
What a beautiful poem.
And then,
Like an alarm went off,
The realization that
I had been reading it,
Up and down,
Over and over again,
For hours,
And a single tear turned into a waterfall.

Then the thought crossed my mind -
This is what poetry is:
Beautifully ugly.

**

"Gathering Moonlight" by Donall Dempsey
I read this poem and just felt an extreme attachment to it. I really didn't realize how affected I was by it until my fiancé hugged me and asked if I was alright. I was so moved by it. Point being, I truly feel like this is what poetry is supposed to be. Having a reaction that you don't even realize you've had.

The  sea of silence lies between us,
but In silence nature's grandest work is done
and the Life's brightest stars rise from a troubled darkness.
So remember, even if you are not ready
for light it cannot always be darkness.

she bought me more pens
from zoos and amusement
parks than I’ll ever need
for miles of thoughts
I’ve no time to travel
envisaged a desert of
white paper waiting
for the sky to rain
words turned to pros
and verse, you are a
writer dad she said
in need of inspiration
and this is all I have
to give your fertile mind
but she is wrong so wrong
my inspiration is her
my reason to carry on
belief in what I do
all the ink in the world
could not express just
how much I love her

If you're right, write
Even if you're wrong, write
If you're free, write
Even if you're  busy, find time to write

Write cos it's your right
Write cos you need no rite to write
Write cos you have the ability to write
And that's enough to begin to write

Write when it's boring
Write when it's interesting
Write when it's indescribable
So in any situation, just write

Write the past
Write the future
Write the real
Write your imagination

What you write will remind you
What you write may inspire you

So I write...
Just write

Looking for inspiration
In a desolate dreary wasteland
The same **** just different days spent
Hoping life will finally make sense
Cos I've got bored and aggravated
With the drama that will unfold
Is this really the end of the road before me I behold?
So I form facts from fiction
To avoid repetition
Of dreary events to which each week ends
Cos my yesterdays tomorrow
You know so my yesterday will follow today
A bit like Bill Murray
From that film Groundhog Day
But with a lot less adventure
Or comedic reflection
A script not to question
No seems between scenes
I'm caught in a dream I can't see me come free from
And those are the facts son
There's no lights camera action
No glitz and no glamour
Definitely no famous actor
With the hardest tasks keeping track of
...
Straight from morning to night
In the flash of an eye
The same simple ending
A yawn then a sigh
Only to wake with a shudder
Butterflies inside flutter
Feeling nothing but gutted
No new day
No new dollar
It's the same as before
As you walk out the door
The same route to work
To prepare for the worst
And they call it White Collar
Should be Call Centre Curse

the sailing stones
were thought to be
a phenomenon
it was incomprehensible
that a rock
the inanimate
     of all inanimates
should show signs
     of movement
here was mystique
here was mystery
perhaps a message
left by
cosmic energies
or
higher beings
undecipherable
     unexplainable
there could have been
beauty
in never knowing
in letting
     the idea remain
pure
untainted
restorative

alas
we cannot bear
the unexplained;
where the miraculous
is founded
   in uncertainty
we must probe
and pry
until an answer
is found
whether for benefit
betterment
or
hindrance

perhaps a balance
can be found
between the known
and what remains
acceptably unknown
before
the intrigue
and enchantment
are marred by
the bland
     the sterile
          the prosaic