A sigh is a barebacked rider, soundless along a sandy coast,
A candle tipped with starlight, wheeling in a cosmos of smoke,  
A firefly floating on the ruins of the wind like a winged gyroscope,
A skull in the stomach whose teeth are my own and breathes
With Babel’s thousand tongues telling fragrant untruths.

There are so many ways
to say goodbye
‘Hellos’ are but a few
there’s ‘adieu’ and ‘farewell’
just to mention one or two
‘Catch you later
…alligator’
there are much, and many more
of ‘Bye byes’
than of ‘Hi’s’
than a simple ‘Bonjour’

‘See ya’ or ‘See you’
easier said than to cleave
so, ‘So long’
won’t feel wrong
so many ways to see you leave
maybe, it’s because we depart
more often than we come
maybe, “hello” holds no meaning
after it’s said and when it’s done
goodbye could be good but hurtful
for no sorrow in hello you feel
but parting can be painful
so we say ‘Keep it real’

‘ta ta’, ‘toodeloo’
’sorry it’s me…not you’
among the funny things we say
like ‘howdy’, ‘how you?’
‘****-a-doodle-doo’
by early morning on your way
so it’s hasta la vista
see you soon, or cya later
I’d better be along.
take it easy
easy peasy
peace out and stay strong.

At the intersection of a vague bravado and worried unformedness, I turn on the radio to hear sparkles of joy and humour, and a useful skepticism. On the road ahead of me, I see a sign labelled “Determination begins here.” I take the exit.

What am I to do without a harshly scrutinizing figurine on my shelf? Accept something that accepts me? And only loving critiques and informs me instead of violently projecting vitriolic love/hate attacks towards me? Oh no! I have lost everything.

But I have found, and am finding various other things. And on that exit, is more signs. And more sentences that begin with connectives. And so on.

I am exploring

with words, as my objective --


as my set of maps.

Consider essential breaths of air, and the expulsion of stale air caused by living tissue to vibrate outward through the mouth, twisted by the tongue, ultimately, effortlessly, sculpted into words quite literally expressed. Then, when heard, this mere turbulence of updraft and downdraft instinctively intertwined, innervates the cells of the brain and recreates the voice of what in man, we call the mind. It is astounding!

I have been fascinated with language my entire life.

I don't possess the imaginative, creative or intellectual prowess of those who have found success in writing. Whether I have special talent or ability to compose from mere fragments of sound something singularly meaningful or moving or enchanting or grand is candidly, beyond my innermost aspiration: it has never been a serious pursuit. I recognize great works of others and profess my awe and my lack of reach openly.

But, my study and reading and writing of poems emerged from that thrill I felt and still feel at the sound that is the very essence of each word, written or spoken. It is the power of language as a pattern of sound - the resonance of words however articulated, that has and will always give me special joy.

Language is taken for granted. We speak, communicate, read and write throughout our lives.  

We may speak of the meanings of words. We might study their origin, the evolution of language. Or we might focus only on the functional aspects of language: the organizational utility that letters and words and grammar and spelling and punctuation and composition and ultimately, pronunciation and articulation contribute constructionally to the primary aim which is communication.

We may cherish only the results - the great stories and novels, or spiritual and philosophic admonitions and inquiries, or favorite song lyrics or poetry that wondrously compresses language into some uniquely evocative mental, emotional and/or spiritual experience.

How impoverished would we be without the articulation of ideas and concepts and personal experience that language makes possible?

For some reason, in addition to respecting the power of language, I have always been compelled on impulse to hear the actual words and marvel at them - to play with them and study their tonal quality merely as fragments of sound heard actually or heard only echoing about in the silence of my mind.

It is the sounds of the words themselves, more than any image or sentiment a particular poem of mine might be constructed around, that I hope to offer in the form of this otherwise unremarkable collection of personal art. For each that might visit, I hope the few minutes spent are enjoyable and worthy and that your own words give you joy, too.

The strongest passions, joy and sorrow
Contract the feelings like a vice,
A solid block no word can slice,
As lead today, and lead tomorrow.
The thicker humors have congealed.
Water alone can spurt and run,
Too light to join that unison
When bliss and sadness have annealed.  
Though salted, tears can trickle down,
So fluid in comparison
To what calamity has stung.  
So grieve, repent, blame, weep, or clown,  
And breath is borrowed from the air,
And words but clipped and scripted breath.  
Can grief pronounce a shibboleth,
Or rapture limn what’s past compare?