my eyes aren't open yet, but i know i'm here.
my breath is irregular, i hold my breath in impatience;
i've no choice but to exist for the day.
my breath is impatient, and my mind is too.
i need to go, go, go, go, go, go.
i imagine going
until it's too late.

on this hill a poet can see how
the tip of the forest is the dance-floor for light, how
silent sediments don't notice our steps
yes, there are mythologies of darkness in the bracket (some are ready to take the plunge) but
I am here to watch the evening simmering, the light letting go of itself
the tide of sight attuned with the air discarded by trees
my bones run in a depth even when time calls a truce with itself

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.

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