Light up the sacred fire.
The warm spot in every
Heart of every lover
As is tradition to do.
Add in infatuation to
Get the inferno burning.
Feed it words like kindling
Those simple nicknames
Love, dear and honey
And then add compliments
The coals to keep it lit
And alive for a longer time

Next
Throw the big pieces in
The caring, thoughtful acts.
That will never fully burn
Leaving a blackened reminder
Then the large promises.
That you will look at no other.
That he or she is the only one
That you will always love.

Now you have quite
The bonfire to sit by
To warm your chills
But eventually you’ll run out
Of all the other fuels

The only thing left to burn
Is yourself.

Made of stone
With a heart of gold
A touch so cool
It sent shivers down my spine

Gentle to the sands of time
Holding an hourglass with endless beads
Greatest love of all
Speaking in tongues

A figure lost to you
A mystery to be solved and closed
Never to open again
Hands placing a lock

Keeping it a secret
Eyes closed to prevent the truth seeping out
Slave to no one
Ozymandias, you are free

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert… Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

often it is the only
thing
between you and
impossibility.
no drink,
no woman's love,
no wealth
can
match it.
nothing can save
you
except
writing.
it keeps the walls
from
failing.
the hordes from
closing in.
it blasts the
darkness.
writing is the
ultimate
psychiatrist,
the kindliest
god of all the
gods.
writing stalks
death.
it knows no
quit.
and writing
laughs
at itself,
at pain.
it is the last
expectation,
the last
explanation.
that's
what it
is.
from blank gun silencer - 1991

Dreamily over the roofs
The cold spring rain is falling,
Out in the lonely tree
A bird is calling, calling.

Slowly over the earth
The wings of night are falling;
My heart like the bird in the tree
Is calling, calling, calling.

one must wonder
if the word “Punctuation”
is a relative of “Punctured’;
for, as you must have noticed,
a prose passage
with no punctuation
is as good as punctured…
poetry is cunning;
she uses punctuation as she wishes
and still remains pregnant
with meaning, if you know what I mean

Frightened and confused;
a soul so absolutely lost.
On a bridge above a river asks
"Is the freedom worth the cost?"

Today shrugged
in total acceptance
for the arising,
never ending process
of confusion
and bewilderment
and awe.
Leaves tossed
their bright orange bodies
over the blacktop,
and warm, blue sky,
as I took a sip of tea
warming my chest to the idea
of openness;
to the prospect
of a present that is
entirely out of my control.