I wrote a poem, just for you,
Wrought out of pain and tears.
You took the pain, and wrote one too;
It multiplied our fears.

I wrote a poem, filled with joy,
And gave you that as well.
You wrote one too, and helped destroy
Our paranoia's spell.

to be the kind of person
who will glimpse
the cherry blossom tree
beautifully delicate
in its early bloom
fluttering the palest pink
against a fragile white
desperate against even
the gentlest of breeze
but only observe
the black and the white
of what the premature
might mean for later
commenting how soon
these branches will lose
their graceful lustre
no longer to inspire
those hopeful wanderers
only to appear barren
and lifeless once again

i found myself reading
the words of Bukowski
as he describes a series
of meaningless moments
aspects of a journey
seemingly trifling
prosaic and unremarkable
in the manner recounted

a bus stops at a cafe
in the hills
lightly touched by
a newly-falling snow
of food and coffee
he says both were good
the waitress rare
the cook effervescent
the dishwasher commodious

as the snow swirls
beyond the window
he describes the scene
as beautiful but curious
certain it will forever
be beautiful in that way
he wished to stay
yet returned to the bus
nonetheless
when the driver beckoned

the other passengers
spoke or read or
tried to sleep
and none had noticed
the beauty of that moment
that something could be
so poignant to one
while being mundane
to others
is worth remembering
i guess

In the grass, snakes lie
Fangs bared, ready to strike,
Slither over consciousness,
Turning strength weak,
As insidious thoughts do inside.
Cause man to pause,
As like a stone;
Movement defies

What galavants as another,
Stuck out
Always staring in?
What sparks,
What smothers?
To capture a view,
Only to envision?
Walks the tightrope of light;
Cleaving night, like rays of a beam?
Put together by others,
Yet lacks a seam?
Has power, that
Blossoms only as a flower?
Looks upon the empty,
To see something?

Who knows nothing?

On torrid winds from whence it came
A lurid light has taken aim
Bold and bright and dry it seeks
Cold and quiet eyes to pique

For change is that, a whipping wind
A blinding light that has no end
Curst and harsh and strong it burns
At worst it marks us with concern

When torrid light has gone or come
And horrid sights of change begun
It can admit a ranging chorus
Attending to what changes for us

And it's just that, the music notes
Of binding, tight, subduing hope
The skipping sounds of steps that pass
The winds of change that never last…

            walk with me a while

In the chamber's cold embrace I lay,
A harbinger of despair, a silent plea.
Whispered secrets sealed in metallic skin,
Destined to bear the weight of a desperate sin.

Molded in the shadows I embraced my role,
Not by choice but by the hands that stole
A moment's respite in life's dark despair,
A choice, a whisper, suspended in the air.

From the barrel's mouth I was set free,
A messenger of sorrow, a tragic decree.
Through the void, I journeyed without refrain,
A vessel of anguish, an embodiment of pain.

Not for glory, nor a battlefield's embrace,
But to carve an exit from life's haunting space.
In that fleeting moment of cosmic disdain,
I traced a trajectory, untethered from the sane.

No solace in the cold metal that confined,
No redemption in the trajectory I defined.
A passage through the void, a desperate flight,
A silent scream swallowed by the endless night.

In the aftermath, echoes of a silenced cry,
A hollow testament to a soul's goodbye.
I bear witness to the aftermath's desolation,
As I rest in the silence of my own grim creation.

Dancing on the waters edge
Warm Bright Light

Kissing the Mountain Tops
As we say good night

Penetrating skin's surface
Could soothe or burn

Near Infrared Light
Said to heal we learn

But the sky is changing
or are we just further away

Sunken in tunnels
With lights of blue

Alert
Awake
Far from you...