Writer, Writer, finding stories
in every twitch of every eye ---
there are no chance encounters here!
Coincidence is banned from us,
for it does not make good books.

Cause-and-effect makes the world go round,
thus questions by millions unanswered:
why thatword, why that look,
and what crucial subtext
was inferred by that three-second pause?

Does the world work like this,
like a well-crafted novel?
Are we characters moving
to preprescribed endings?

In short, I suppose, my question is this:
            are we Writers so cursed to live in this illusion,
            or cursed to see how the world actually works?

This siren’s song is waiting, wading;
sifting through the armada of coral reefs and schools of fish,
against the fiery black pits; so long so lonesome.

She waits.
Through tidal waves
through hurricanes, through luck
She waits for him, her long lost sailor boy
her sweet soft sentimental poor excuse called love.

I have been mesmerized by mystical whirlpools of blue
Which stand in your constant stare in the deepest tint and hue
And I find I am captivated to no end with unspoken feeling and word
As I share in a conversation in which nothing can be heard
And all I pray is that you might let me clear your hair off your cheek
So my lips may land on their rosy tint and my passion may finally speak
For in this lies an unseen trasaction which you and I only know
As the blue in your eyes bring me far from shore and the waves of love seem to grow
Oh dearest girl who holds the essence of passion through and through
In my heart I can't deny I've devoted myself to you
Let me hold you close and caress your soft, soft skin
To warm you in the coming fall which reaps harsh winter winds
And in every action, every stare, every breath, I pray you know my heart
Which beats and aches to gaze into God's favorite work of art
I'll be your knight, your soldier, your lover, your partner forever true
For I have been mesmerized by mystical whirlpools of blue

I never knew here to be one who would accept my roses
Or even one to exchange kisses like Eskimos, rubbing noses
But I could tell you it was her smile that gave her away
Even amidst the mud on her cheeks she gained throughout the day

She was never one for dresses, no, her jeans fitted just fine
Her figure flattering, though her clothes modest, humble in her design
And she would sooner throw a punch than look for rescuing
Yet she showed her princessly ways every time she'd sing

She would rather raise a mug than a cup of tea
And romp around, laughing all the while, on the bed with me
She'd giggle when I burped, and defeat me all the more
Then lie with me to look at the ceiling from her bedroom floor

But when she cried... oh when she cried... there crying she would be
And you would see no figure that was all the more dainty
No words said as she'd bury her face deep into my chest
Strong is she, all to me, in sorrow or happiness

There is a rose as red as blood
With stem a shining gold hue
That I had found in forbidden lands
And longed to pick for you

This unmatched wonder entranced me
Captivating my mortal soul
But as I reached for this piece of loveliness
I was caught by silver thorns and let go

It was as if a fairytale
That was so unreal; you'd believe that it's true
And I felt my blood run down my fingertips
As red as the rose I tried picking for you

Had Midas been no fable?
Was this his prized jewel?
Had he set this royal majestic object
To inspire poets, lovers, and even fools

So many questions laid in my mind
Both of the rose and soil in which it grew
For it was richer than any I'd set my wandering foot on
And birthed the rose I tried to pick for you

A dewy mist covered the land
The sun shining just enough to light my way
It sang, this valley, this forbidden Eden
And I swear to return to it some day

And that ever enchanted flower
That shines so eternally new
Still left the imprint on my fingertips
With which lie on the hands which I hold you

And my greatest grand children will hear this tale
Of their greatest grandfather's memorable morn
And of how his journey to forbidden lands
Led to the rose of silver thorns

And if someday you find yourself there
With skies of an unmatched blue
I pray you see that flower with silver and red
From the blood of a lover who tried to pick it for you

I’m the son of a storm and a burning parade
Saw the carnival lights going up in a blaze

The fault
in our
stars

is neither
intensity nor
quantity.

Fear not the cosmos
choked up in creation
might’ve forgotten
some fiery ingredient.

No

The fault
in our stars
is simply
that there are none.