#exhaling
a new poet, here,
quite breathless,
in this new rarefied
universe-of-uni-que-verses,
five, count’em,
five poems fell from
*within me but
to (out-with) you,*
even
without you
as if they existed prior, since
the beginning of
time, and just needing releasing,
like birds
from a jailor’s cage,
and well for me, feeling freedom
for the
very first time,
it’s a major
minor miracle,
two whole followers,
and I
run to the sea shores
to advise the world of
no-one-can hear-me of this
new development,
and the silence rewards me
with a sense of
awe, at this earthshaking development,
because I am actually shaking & stirring with/from
a crazy mixture of anxiety excitement exhaustion,
crazy like someone slipped me a key to a whole other world,
to where I can steal away
anytime I want and shout out
over an empty beach,
words of creation sung
in a crazy tune,
and I realize that I am
actually
naturally
high
**this is so very cool. feel free to laugh,
at or with me, no cares, as long as
our laughing is in our mutual language!**
Feb 3, 2025
Feb 3, 2025 at 2:03 PM UTC
Where We Heal
In the silence of loss, where our hearts have bled,
We gather the pieces of what once was said.
Though shattered and worn, we still seek the light,
In the darkness of sorrow, we’ll learn how to fight.
With each fragile breath, we begin to reclaim,
The strength to rebuild from the ashes of pain.
Oct 13, 2024
Oct 13, 2024 at 3:38 PM UTC
Writing things down
Feels like
Plucking hummingbirds
From inside my head
And holding them
In the palms of my hands
In front of me
So that I can
Eye them
Microscopically
Then
Let them go
And finally
Finally
Exhale
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 11:07 AM UTC
Mother,
The epitome of love.
A star made of combustion
Of crimson and wild blue.
Her smile like a cresent
shining bright
from an afar Galaxy.
Mother,
Vibrant as sun rays,
And soft like the moonlight.
Tremendous as lightning,
enlightning the dark sky
with a spark.
Mother,
The paintbrush
that paints vibrancy
on the dullest of days.
Mother,
A soul that burns with ferocity,
Whos hands are always busy
scrubbing, moulding, cooking
But her touch always caressing with love.
Mother,
Who's voice can be the ocean
Calming and soothing
Or as loud as the seas
Roaring and crashing in a storm
bursting away personal confinement.
But she rows
Even through the sea of troubles.
Nothing is too heavy
She marches on.
Mother,
Who sacrifices and compromises
To deepen skies
and hand stars to hold.
Mother,
Who's love I cannot comprehend and stomach
For she grows flowers from pain,
Inhaling O2
And Exhaling O3
Transfiguring weeds into garden for us to play.
She is the incarnation of love.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 2:39 PM UTC
Telephones.
Earphones.
Earplugs.
To drown out
Baby cries.
Engines exhaling.
Anxiety.
"Don't be afraid"
"You've done this before"
"He knows what he's doing"
The tired.
The disagreeable.
The impossibly experienced.
Tickets.
Bags.
Smile-free faces.
I'm ready.
You're ready.
Let's go already.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC