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Someone from the same house I’ve always lived in,
got invited to a birthday party,
like I used to, a few Septembers ago.
Now, nobody sends me invitations.

Sometime later, in the same house I’ve always lived in,
there will be a birthday party,
like there used to be, a few Octobers ago.
No, there won’t be. I lied.

Somehow, in the same house I’ve always lived in,
there will be traces of tears at a birthday party,
like there have been for the past few years.
No, not a party —
but bring your tissue paper along.

Someone from the same house I’ve always lived in,
will say “Happy Birthday”
through a feast, a little nod,
a few “you’re still a kid today” moments,
and more “leave it to me, love — live a little.”

Words turn into actions
when you're a little considerate,
or more so, if you’re a parent.

Sometime later, in the same house I’ve always lived in,
you’ll hear the echoes of almost-said thank-yous.
disguised as 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘭,
a quiet agreement,
a few 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵,
more 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦.

The graveyard of my gratitudes
has always been buried next to
my willingness to be present —
available, if you may.

Somehow, in the same house I’ve always lived in,
parties will be hosted again.
Birthday parties, even.
But attended by phantoms of abandonment,
because nobody really lives there anymore.

The permanence of everything is unsettling.
The house you grew up in
knows nothing about what the future holds.

And somewhere between all these celebrations,
the mourning of what was planted — and decayed — continues.
The phantoms still prefer
to live in the houses
we’ve always lived in.
For breath, for belonging

Shalom, Abba,  
not just peace,  
but the kind that wraps  
around my weary shoulders  
like morning light.

You are the quiescence
between my questions,  
the stillness 
beneath my striving.

Abba, Father,  
not just parent,  
but the pulse  
that steadies me  
when I forget my name.

You walk with me  
through shadowed rooms,  
through spirals of doubt,  
and still you whisper,  
I am here.

Shalom, Abba,  
in your breath  
I find my own.  
In your silence,  
I remember  
I am not alone.

Until my work is done,  
until my last sigh sings,  
I will walk  
in your peace.
~entirely for irina~

in search of perfect cleanliness,
the flowering scented sense,
aura of perfect cleanliness
we write, return, close the book, and
then question our imperfections not fully
soluble, so we lift life's newly soiled loads,
and with detergent pen, erase the old stains,
for the new day's chores, begin and end,
again and again, then again,
this cycling, circling is never fully reversed
our ***** laundry, in poetry, cleansing,
but we bitter bite our own mocking laughs,
for after this poem,
comes ten thousand more
and time, with words more precious
than newly mined gold,
from the land where east meets west,
demands without surcease,
endless re and repolishing
,

so by sunlight's glittering
dawn's arrival, we are momentarily healed.
but never ever more fully revealed,
and once more, in next's poem
dawn,
our own re~
cycling never ceases
upon reading your poem
Tremor^

and this what I think:
when reading your seamless
writing connecting of moments
of immortality,

only one question remains,
why, does our own writing
not approach the level of your exquisite precision
soul's *******?

is it our
own immorality
that permits our soon-to-be-
discontinued pretenses,
wherein, whereby,
we can still believe
our own words should be
deservedly disowned,
disinherited to the
scrap heap heated,
burned, eradicated
and
why do we even try?

sigh
>.<
dare not read it twice,
lest my inked fingertips
surrender to my
indecent indecision
that this country we
all inhabit and that
inhibits
all,

this country of
"Unknown Origins"

is a land that should always be
capitalized
a woman's passion is a fiction of the sun
a radiance that forms and lingers
it's time burning like a rag in a guttering flame
it flickers, it spits a storm, a moment's certainty
a lifetime's doubt
it is the whisper of the wind in barren trees
a crucible for gravity's fervor
a silence dreaming its imploded sounds
Slowly slips the light of day
Across the rim of ridge, at play.

Golden in its cadenced glow
Deep ochre 'neath the bridge, below.

A fillagree of forfeiture when misting intervenes
Alas, the frolic interplay deploys her in the in-betweens.

Shadows cut by sunlight in a deftly hewn montage
Where the heft becomes the hewn and the hewn the **** fromage?

Interspersed, a flicker in the foliage on the mound
As to toy with the gestation of illumination's sound.....

A devastating show on the rim of ridge at play,
With the sinking of the sunlight in the orchestra of day.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
A thematic interplay of permanence and transience...an orchestral metaphor which elevates landscape to a stage where the magnificence of the light conducts its final act, a weight beyond the visual, a reckoning, a farewell
pretty words for pretty girls


courageous caress of a send key pressed,
after practicing  
speechless up to the assumed,
up to assured point of perfect,
flawlessness, visible in each invisible breath,
pauses full of poignant stories unspoken
but eye cleared visible for seeing the future


pretty words for pretty girls

intuition incorporates superstition,
unending, intending infatuated moon gazing,
but not pagan worshiping, no it is love worshiping

your hiding cave places are moon apertures dark spots,
impenetrable to my eye’s naked telescoping,
but heartbeats spring my unharnessed love poems to you

me and millions whisper in full certainty of our
lost but beloved presences, moon stored for us,
my darling dares the light shine upon my bay,
here to me, our path, a moonlight waving hand
provides on many nights, a clear direction to follow,
pseudo-thrills of continence that my vision uncovers,
but my body knows is but a poor substitute


pretty words for pretty girls

my disease has a diagnosis.

your body attacked,
your body reacts,
defeats the infector,
remembering the next time
that disease comes round
how it got beat prior
and how to do it again



so how come I’m falling love once more?
I swallowed my saliva.
I closed my eyes
to say what had followed me
and walked before me
for many years.

Did you know those thin twigs
pierced the cells of my skin?
It didn’t hurt.
A miracle of creation,
a tree is growing inside me.

It sent out shoots into the blue above
and roots deep into the earth.
So many times I awakened to life.
Even more often,
I lost leaves, leaving them behind
like worn-out words
and sweet pauses of silence,
the calm after inconsolable sobbing.

Living tissue,
swollen with anger, burst again.
Oceans spilled.
Fire tried to burn joy and hope.
Watching as sensitivity curled,
like a frightened puppy.

I remember the child
and the grown woman.
I remember everything
except the words.

When the artificial lights go out,
you will see
how much strength you still carry,
how many living suns burn within you,
waiting to give warmth.

Even when everything screams
and your tissues pulse with fear,
still, you live
with your voice,
with your thoughts.
It is not the end.
It is night coming.
I do not say goodbye.
I say good night.
a birthday poem for S.

perhaps, this is the responsibility, the purposeful gentility,
that poetry engenders, that thwarts the impulse to anger,
guiding away, finding a way, to temper the temper, to out
and joust away our basest, our first, but never our foremost
nor finest, succinct instinct, yet terrible human nonetheless...

perhaps, this is where we hide, neath our carnival masque,
our-would-be better selves, and struggle in this, this intensity intentional,

the season's change is subtly blatant, not obvious 'cept to those
who have a front seat, a well worn Adirondack chair in the nook
where the airy breeze offers fruits of words so easy, pluck words
as easy as breathing, and the slight gradation change, in the light and
temperature, and yet, the suns cares not, for it still warms my body,
though lower and slower, nonetheless, when the heat invades my soul, confirming my, our, existence,

burning off the fog of our contradictory confusions,
and eliciting an unsolicited
"thank you god"
for my, our personal miracle of re~birthing
and better comprehending,
that other
miracle we can embrace
never enough

loving kindness

sun~mon
sep 14~15
twenty twenty five
The phrase "to tame the savageness of man" is part of a larger quote, often attributed to the ancient Greek playwright Aeschylus, which reads, "Tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world". This powerful sentiment was also famously quoted by Robert F. Kennedy, who attributed his translation to Edith Hamilton, and it calls for humanity to overcome its darker impulses for the sake of a more compassionate and peaceful existence
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