the written word
will never do justice to a woman,
and yet i try to capture
the movements of strangers
as their lives weave in and out
of each others'.

with what ink
can i write down the colours
of a woman's day,
as she goes about her day -
measured movements,
silent prayers,
unsettled glances.
what metaphor
can ever perfectly capture
how she navigates tides and tides
of love and loss
and everything in between
like a sailor without
a North Star.
what verse
can perfectly worship
her strength, her fears,
her joy, her tears,
and everything that lies
in the middle of nothing,
nowhere.

i try to write down
a woman,
but my words,
any words,
will never be enough.

i do this thing
where i let people
make their homes
in the midst of my words.

they are cordially invited
to bring their joys into my home,
(sorrows optional, if you do not
have sorrows of your own,
some will be provided to you)
i am always excited
to have new inhabitants living
in electronic pages of my memory,
if only for a night.

i love it when i know
the weight of a soul
just enough
to set it down gently,
surrounded by literary furniture
so it feels at home.
i love to watch from afar,
patiently,
while these people
find their bearings
in the monstrous maze
that is my poetry.
they get lost sometimes -
in mixed messages,
messy metaphors,
silly sentences,
violent verses.
I am in awe of how gently
they can navigate my mind
and come to rest
in a corner that they make
for themselves,
and no one else.

i do this thing
where i let people
make their homes
in the midst of my words -
a small colony,
a peaceful civilization -
with the occasional war,
a rare skirmish.

their homes have windows,
and on most days,
i don't mind
letting the world have a peek.

got into my seat, took on the highs and lows

the same way that we all go

scooting over for whoever joined the ride

(and the ride was better with you by my side

we climbed up into the sky and the stars

me with my words and you with your guitar

the descend seemed to last forever, although

when we went back down, we found it was never so

you stopped the wheel, got down, and it never started again)

waiting for the motions to bring the night to an end

going to take all the highs and lows as I go

(looking for an answer to a question you’ve always known)

when time starts to spin (when you can also see the light

will I shift when, once more, I find you by my side?)

I had a friend;
we journeyed life together.
Down a dark and winding road
we made our merry way.
The trail was long,
with many holes and pitfalls.
We took our bumps and bruises
and we swallowed our dismay.

I had a friend;
we spent our evening hours
playing our guitars and singing
songs both old and new.
And at night's end
we'd shake our hands and promise
our friendship would endure
and we would always see it through

     But time has a mystic power,
     it turns saplings into trees;
     and its river made a canyon -
     separates my friend and me.

I had a friend;
helped me through tribulations,
and I would be there when
he needed company.
But life goes on,
and our two trails soon parted;
left nothing for each other
but songs and a memory.

    For time has a mystic power,
    it turns saplings into trees;
    and its river made a canyon -
    separates my friend and me.

That friend I had,
out of touch for more than twenty years...
I saw him yesterday
in a little place downtown.
His looks had changed,
perhaps a little paler
in his softly padded bed
with his friends all hangin' round.

     For time has a mystic power,
     it turns saplings into trees;
     and its river made a canyon -
     separates my friend and me.

     For time has a mystic power,
     it turns saplings into trees;
     and its river made a canyon -
     separates my friend and me.