Peacock feathers
perfection.
A baby panther yawning
yawning, sleek and
black, a swan leaning
back
stretching pristine snowy wings.
Petrichor, crisp musk,
floating river feathers,
mother’s ozone after rain,
all
around
hitting soft
down.

The reddest of roses held to the sky.
The clearest of tears
we have yet to cry.

A silvery plate of oily green olives throwing back the sun,
of which they are ,   one.
( of which we all are)
so hard,
becoming one with nothing again in each passing breath.
Energy expended.
A thought, by moments.... in emotions
extended.

The care of casket sheen — silken interiors but overflowing with the wet, inky blackness of squirming, over-lit salamanders. Writhing
Erupting.
Effluviant.
Rubbery little salamanders.
Everywhere.
Nature. The nature. Of art and beauty.
Understanding, the great misunderstanding
right before our eyes. Right. before.         Our eyes.
Rite before our eyes.
Eyes, another’s .What we truly long to see.
The clarity of symbols built over centuries
and lost in a single fire/trend.

Tallow

The candle and I bear witness
to the long, lone, and restless night.
With a match, we bring ourselves to light
brilliant reminders of finer days past.
forced forth
out of love
not meant to last,

We complement each other in our fading vigilance,
twisting,
smoldering,
struggling
we fall,
exhausted or, dripping
We grow ever small.

Used,
they saw the one true answer,
and so it was
the only light.
No will,
no arms
with which to fight,
no rival to the endless stars,  the all shared night
a sky that taught the world to dance.
Symbols of hope and knowledge
not brought into this world by chance.


To flicker and hiss or  claim our right.
Wax sealed the deed and blinded our sight.

Born to burn and ever so fast.
Brilliant reminders of those finer days past,
wrought for a purpose,
understanding, it was never to last.
Illuminations are made,
in shadow we cast.

Those that sputter and waver,
gutter and wane,
flee before storms, slip from the reins.
Yet from us,
the lights still glow,
revealing the truths the Greats longed to know.

Some writhe .
Others twinkle  
I smoke
and then fall
until there is nothing left
of us at all.

Here but once, and once alone
Is it just once, and all from a spark?
Our essence is , YEARNING
not Dawn, nor the Dark.

Getting there, though no idea where.
And to be honest: I don’t care.
But slowly, step by step,
every second, every day,
I am getting closer, yes, I am!

And sometimes it feels like I can see it,
I can taste it, I can hear it.
Sometimes it seems like I'm already there,
no longer here.

But there’s still a long way to go,
many sleepless nights and long days
a journey through the snow, the hail, and the sleet.

Getting there, though no idea where.
And to be honest, I don’t care.

Would it help me if I did?

If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d move to Norway.
I’d wake to mountains wrapped in mist,
walk beside fjords that mirrored the sky,
and learn that silence is not an enemy
but a companion.
 
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d not only see the world—
I’d learn it.
I’d taste spices in Morocco,
learn dances in Brazil,
drink red wine in Spain,
walk beneath the cherry blossoms in Japan,
stand in Iceland under skies that catch fire,
trace the ruins of Greece with my fingertips,
watch the sun rise over deserts in Morocco.
I’d wander through India’s colors,
breathe the sharp air of the Andes,
and sit quietly in the forests of Finland
until stillness felt like home.
 
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d dive into the Great Barrier Reef,
swim among colors brighter than anything I’ve written.
I’d climb mountains in Switzerland
and let my lungs burn with clean air.
I’d follow the rivers of Canada,
camp beneath skies so heavy with stars
they would drown out my doubts.
I’d stumble through words in languages not my own
and laugh at the mistakes.
I’d fill my passport with stamps
and my heart with places that felt like home
for a day, a week, or a lifetime.
 
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d tell people how I feel.
I’d say I miss you without shame,
I need you without fear,
I love you without hesitation.
I would trust that they could hold
both the light and the storm of me.
I would risk being known.
 
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d create without fear.
I’d paint without erasing,
write without deleting,
sing without lowering my voice.
I would publish my poems
and trust they might land
in someone else’s quiet night
like a lantern they didn’t know they needed.
 
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I would adopt a cat.
I’d let it curl against me in the evenings,
purring its small, steady rhythm
into the noise of my thoughts.
I’d adopt a dog too,
let its joy drag me outside,
pulling me toward sunlight and weather,
reminding me that life is meant to be walked through.
 
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d dance in the rain,
sing off-key in the shower,
fill notebooks without editing,
and dance badly but freely.
I’d stop waiting for the perfect moment,
and instead let imperfect moments
become my life.
 
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I would let myself dream of futures.
Not just days or weeks,
but years.
I’d imagine birthdays not yet celebrated,
friendships not yet found,
a life that stretches forward
instead of folding in.
 
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I would know what it feels like to be free.
Free from the weight of fear,
free from the urge to vanish,
free to step into the world
without asking permission.
I’d gather freedom piece by piece—
in laughter, in rain, in mountains, in love—
until it was mine to carry.
 
And maybe—
just maybe—
I’d stop circling the question of leaving,
and start writing a list of places to go,
people to hold,
stories to tell,
reasons to stay.

Passengers on the train, with dullness in their eyes,  
sit in front of me like a reflection.  
They stare at me, unable to look away.

The train rolls on, its sound stretching seconds into hours.  
They continue to gaze at me and then at the window,  
staring so blankly that I can hear their breaths.  

From time to time, some stand up,  
step outside, and free me from their presence.  
I beg fate, "Please, don't let them come back!"  

But they return, sit down,
and resume their gaze.

I should’ve had a hedonistic summer, a roundup of long, sun-kissed days and even longer, undulant, kissing nights.

There are no riviera pics this year - set against the blow-out backdrop of Saint Tropez or Heraclee - with their sunlit-deliriums, cracked plaster beach bars, aromatic trailing Jasmine, lavender, umbrella pines and baking Socca.

No nights of dense, optimistic nihilism on neon-painted open-air dancefloors, or gritty, underground raves, in dark, brick-clad, light-strobed basements.

And no timeless, sun-drenched, beachside early mornings, with their moments of stillness, beauty and reprieve.

Summer feels can’t be vicarious - you have to get out there and get *****, hmm, sandy anyway. Are there ethical implications to basking under a climate-crisis sun? Maybe, but if so, do we care?

Let’s wax poetic..

Summertime often sees us jetting off to different places.

If I could travel anywhere
let it be outer-space
not floating in darkness,
for years and years
let’s find a better way.

I’ve traveled to the moon
- on a little friction -
that isn’t even science fiction.

I’ve traveled simply by turning pages.
It didn’t take fuel and it didn’t take ages.

That was travel at the speed of thought,
but better yet, let’s travel at the speed of sight
- that’s faster than light.
.
.
Songs for this:
Relationships by HAIM
Summer Sun by Koop
Summer Girl (Bonus Track) by HAIM

On the bus, on the plane,
a child kicks the seat,
Loudly sings a half-song
on repeat.

Watch the adults wince,
the parents hiss under their breath,
their patience thinned to wire.

They stare harder at their safety cards,
at crossword clues,
at the blue glow of movies
they won’t remember.

This is the invitation-
Not the kind printed on cardstock,
but the kind that comes with grape jelly fingerprints,
with questions about the clouds,
with shoelaces that won’t stay tied.

Tell me more about that dragon.
That’s not a shadow, it’s a mountain.
What would you name the ocean
if “ocean” was taken?

When they cry,
que the jokes,
make a peanut packet talk-
and the aisle is lighter for it.

How could this not be better
than folding yourself into a seat,
guarding your stiff silence?

Soon they’re gone,
dragging backpacks like spare limbs,
wet-cheeked or grinning.

I sit in the quiet,
watching the passengers
already back to their closed faces.
The question stays:
how could that human response
not be better
when the world hands us
small, loud,
unrepeatable gifts-
and we hand them back unopened?

Well ducks, it was the place to gather in those days.
There were ceiling fans that made one think
that Baron Von Richtofen might fly in at any moment.
I wondered whether a man wearing coveralls had to climb
up on a ladder each morning
to heave the blades into motion.

They served a concoction of fruit, gin, crushed ice,
the low notes from Hernando's Hideaway, and who knew
what else. It tasted like children's party punch
but made our high perches start to  pitch
on the rough seas beneath our jelly legs.

Down some white stone stairs, there was a blue pond
someone had stocked with mallards, as green and gold
as my jewelry. They were free to fly
but could never leave--the desert
would have turned them to cardboard.

We slept with scorpion nets. One night I dreamt
that a handsome man in a uniform of water lay with me,
told me my hair was good rope from India, and
that I had been a snake charmer
in a previous life. He kissed me and it stung.

Ah, love, there you are looking at me through your new
telescope, your young face behind the lens like an egg.
I gave up gin, and traveling, and most other things long ago.
Now I'm talking to you with my bird beak,
free to choose but forbidden to leave

except via packing box, to be sent by air mail over the dunes
to the oasis bar, c/o my younger self, cash on delivery, payable
in florins, code phrase "wing walker." The Baron will be there waiting.
___