Dusk is gone and the midnight hour beckons,
when the flowers sleep,

And night’s silken dew,
Dances across sleeping shallow

where the willow hangs her tired head,
and sleeps under twinkling’s of twilight dreaming.

When the nightingale
Serenades the moon cast meadows,

that place of evening’s repose.

When all is quiet
when all is dark
when all the earth rests
Replenishing,

Waiting for the rise of Sun
and greater possibility.

“Where do you write? Is Ambiance Important? Do you have rituals or habits when you write?” My reply to this question is below.

Most of my writing is done in my den. In terms of “ambiance,” The space that I write in doesn’t have a lot of that, the ambience comes from within I suppose. The space that we create in is not so much that of the physical as it is of the spiritual, The room I write in has very little to do with it except that it houses my keyboard and printer. The “Room” is just another tool.

The so called ambiance comes to me in the form of my memory, of my visualizations of life, or the questions that I have regarding it. To rely in the physical space that one finds themselves in, to depend on that to create, or write what have you, I think is a dangerous crutch to lean on.

It is the mind set of the craftsperson, the poet, the artist the musician, to find the respite that lies within us all. It is those recollections, that creativity, that inner room where the true ambiance lies within our imaginations, a physical room really has nothing to do with it.

In terms of rituals, I would say that when I find a subject that sparks poetic creativity; I simply close my eyes and place my self in the scene, I attempt to use all my senses in bringing that space to life in my mind, the imagined smells and sounds, the colors, and textures… When I feel that I have absorbed those elements, I then begin the writing process. It is within the power of each of us to visualize our poetic worlds. Poetry for me is much more than meter and rhyme, it is much greater than stanza and verse. Poetry is the culmination of lives’ lived, lives’ remembered.

Poetry is the dream of higher possibilities; it is the culmination of the poet’s power to move individuals to inspiration. In doing so, the space that we create in makes little difference however, the space within us that allows us to share our gifts with the world is the best place to be, the grandest of rooms where creativity and caring abound.

Gibbon minded giddy girl,
Tied a ribbon upon a curl,

Swirling divinity,
In dervish fashion,

Flipped just so,
To highlight passion.

Rouge flavored cheek,
A chance at a peek,

Of pink, and subtle
Flora.

And fauna freaks
Clamber and seek
Sustenance in skin and bone

To lay and beg
At each and every foot fall.

Sanguine lips,
And sultry hips,

Move to the rhythm
Of a butterfly’s dance.

And per chance
That I may find

The root of her wing
I shall fly once again

In winged care
Upon her currents
Of flowing hair.

Alas, it will not be so,
For I am otherwise engaged
With adulated stare

Of the brown haired woman
Dancing across the square.

Held hostage by the didactic rituals of
Diacritic mindsets,

It is a scourge to separate man
From his brothers.

The semblance of articulate postulations
Have been conceived in the wombs of liars.

This quo of assumed status,
This contemptuous agility
With regard to bias.

We toil under the same sky,
And drink from the same river,

And the caress of the wind
Falls upon all faces.

The earth has been bestowed upon those that walk it.
Upon those who have been returned to it.
To those who cleave its riches and separate its chaff.

The misbegotten, forlorn and forgotten
Lay in un-named graves
They seek the light of their identities

In cries of historic laments
And yet the world in gasping sighs
Sits as if they are deaf.

Low the time has come that men should stop and listen
And release this burdensome chain
Of self hate and loathsome disdain.

O, how hard the answer to such a common question,
It’s in the mind of man to continue to be simple,

But far worse in the reality of this
Is how difficult it has become
Filled with dark decay
O so Bitter some.

I see the passing of my life in a falling leaf,
And I am reminded that each of us have a season.
Where our conception is bore from love,
And our growth,
The result of nurture and drought.
It can be seen, it is remembered in mortality’s rings.
Silent ovals, circular remembrance.
Memory.
Growth.
Such is the season where I ponder upon such things.
When I reap the harvest of life’s gifted wisdom.
And in this realization, I find that the journey is accelerating.
That Gravity’s summation is each man’s mortality.
O that I would catch a youthful breeze,
And be carried on the currents of youth once again,
Carrying with me all that I have learned.
But it cannot be, we stay attached to what we know,
The tree,
The weathered sentinel that taught us.
Our greening,
Our dependency came from their roots
Our history.
And our independence; from the severing of maturity’s stem.
However the leaf’s journey is not that of a sheer vertical fall
It is winding, wandering.
The flitting in and out of happiness and joy,
Of rain soaked, tear filled nights.
Of mortal seasons, both warm and cold.
And passionate summers hot and steaming.
I will at some point find the earth,
My final landing upon familiar ground.
Where I shall lightly lay my umber body down,
And return to the base of the tree that bore me.