in the dim light of  
           our laughter  
we unravel  
   the tangled threads of sorrow  
               (whiskey drips like rain)  

your eyes hold  
   the universe’s  
             softest secrets,  
while smoke curls like  
        whispered dreams  
   slipping through fingers  

we have work to do  
            (trust is a fragile bird)  
   listening to the echoes  
of what was and what might be,  
               grieving in the  
              spaces between words  

as dawn stretches its arms,  
   we rise from the ashes,  
   two wild hearts  
    (beating in unison)  
   reborn in the light of a  
                brand-new day.

in the quiet  
   of your mind’s  
      cacophony—  
   where shadows play  
         and whispers weave  
      a tapestry of  
         fears and dreams,  
         (you are not alone)  
you are the  
   garden  
      of chaos,  
   wildflowers blooming  
      in the cracks of  
         your heart’s  
      pavement,  
   each petal a  
      brave  
         echo of  
            you  

let the voices sing  
   their strange melodies,  
      (not monsters,  
         but echoes)  
   and the highs and lows  
      are just the  
         waves  
   of your  
      vast  
         ocean soul—  
   rise and fall,  
      flow and breathe,  
         you are  
            living art,  
   a beautiful  
         (messy)  
      dance of  
   light and shadow  

so gather the stars,  
   weave them into  
      your thoughts,  
   (you are the night’s  
      tender guardian)  
and let the world  
   hold you—  
      fragile,  
         fierce,  
      a constellation  
         of  
   everything you are.

I hold breath before the expanse.

Past the ups and downs
and struggle for air,
the magic of the blue lake
the barren mountains rising around
root me to the ground.

Lovelier than all the dreams
I had of her
all the colours
I painted my imagination with
she arrests my heart
in the way
I found no word for.

I feel her once
and she remains fulfilling for ever.

The day thins out
my eyes blur
in the thought of her.

Bored poets write ennui
Saintly poets write psalms
Bad poets pennings
Are made into songs

Silly poets write limericks
And limericks they read
Drunk poets write scribbles
Drunk on their mead

Angry young men
Write rants by the hour
Wide-eyed young girls write
Of bunnies and flowers

Idiots write nonsense
Off the seat of their pants,
Got news for you, scoffers!
So do savants!

Gays write of rainbows
Heros epics of old,
Storytellers write of
pirate plunder and gold.

Broken poets write humbly
Strong writes unadorned,
Happy bards write of roses
Bleeding poets of thorns.




Soul Survivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc


But what makes a true poet
Is simply when
They type on a keyboard
or write with a PEN

You touched me
You filled me 
You stretched me



You go so deep when you read me

Even deeper when you hurt me

Deeper still when you want me



My body reminisces on the warmth of you

My hands memorized the feel of you

My mind is so full of you

It’s a broken world
we need imperfect solutions
and there are plenty of questions

is it even possible to correct systemic
problems with individual solutions?

I recycle, so everything’s ok, ya?

some would usher in a revolution
while others would stand pat, thinking
they can marginally beat the house

the young believe the old are problematic,
out of touch and largely to blame for the world
the old push back on youthful, impractical,
self-indulgent and self-righteous idealisms

both groups must eventually wrestle with thorny questions

I doubt we could all agree on a short manifesto
or even a pithy rallying cry.
How about something brutal, almost offensive?

Dylan Thomas suggested we rage against the dying of the light,
but then again, it seems that's all we do these days—rage.

There’s a Korean concept called hwabyung,
or “burning sickness”—an intense, suppressed rage
that can blind and destroy us if we’re not careful

Science says we face a direct and bludgeoning future,
that we must be tenacious with the next phase of our evolution
—but must we be adults? Science is so 2014, and we’re all so smart.
.
.
Songs for this:
Dance the Night Away by The Mavericks
I Hope You Dance by Lee Ann Womack

I see them in reflections - the orange juice glass at breakfast or my iPhone where they can pop-up, like notifications - I keep my phone face down.

They usually want to tell you something - how it was for them - their history. I discount these emotional messages - they come with the jester's assumption that I care - that I need the performance and will get involved.

“What are you doing?” My mom asks, as I’m taking all the shiny, mirror-like ornaments off the Christmas tree.
“The glare gives me a headache” I say, without stopping.
“Your Grandma does that too”, she says, wiping her hands on a Santa-themed dishtowel.
“Really?” I say, but I know that, and I know why.

I started having nightmares, when I was in first grade. My mom thought I had an overactive imagination but when she described it to my grandma, she soon showed up for a visit.

Over the next few weeks my Grandma told me about our “gift”. About how we were both born on the same day, under a waning third moon, in Autumn. That we're both “Yins,” doxies (sweethearts) of the dead and that we could, at times, see and hear people who were between stops on their way to their afterlives.

That’s why the dead parachute into my unused moments from reflective surfaces. They can be anxious or in despair - when their deaths were cruel or sudden - but I'm barely an adult - I'm in school - what can I do??

The presence of water discourages them - which is perfect - can you imagine seeing spirits in the reflections of your bath? EEUUUWWW!  
You’ll hardly ever see me without a water bottle or polarized sunglasses - which seem to break up the images. I'll not be smothered in other people's afterlives.