god, at this hour
everything feels like poetry
even the silence is blooming
with words
and i don't know
if that's a blessing or a curse
desolation
or just a plain old desire for more
or maybe just an echoed question
that i ask myself, and answer back
becoming my own interpretation
of each cryptic answer

am i going through something
(well, are you going through something)
or do i just wish i was
(do you really wish you were)
for interest's sake?

maybe it's a mistake
a confusing stanza to read, for sure
but hey, that's how it works
swirls around untranslated
in my mind
and i thank my lucky, silent stars
for the ability to strain out the bracketed pieces
and still appear sane to the world

am i going through something
(well, are you going through something)
or do i just wish i was
(do you really wish you were)
for interest's sake?

Edison’s last breath is in a jar in Michigan
Caught by his son as he died.
Where will my last breath have been by the time it travels through me?
Will it have been spit it the gutter of Mumbai?
Coughed by a panting Senator?
Was it a small sigh at a child’s amazement of a world just opening in his eye?
Will it have travel to space and back?
Was it farted into an airplane seat
Or laughed with a bit of spittle at some barmaids’ misfortune?
This air, this stuff, that expands and contracts us,
the universe even
doesn’t get the credit the heart does.
This invisible life
a language that travels well untranslated
by the heart or mind.
I know you by our breathes
shared exhalations, bits of us.
Air opens us- all of us- to living
from the Yogi to the thief.
Edison who breathed caught light into a jar
a thing unseen until then
now shines breath back at me from this screen
from all screens.
A chain–un broken
passed between us
exhaled into forever’s jar – our breathes

They're just words
Written in pen on clean paper
Whispered gently, and
thrown around
Unraveled, untangled
Untranslated thoughts

Symbols placed together
Neatly, thoughtfully
Clustered and chaotic

But these "words" set me free
They take away the pain
**** the poison from the bite
And make me sane
Keep me healed
And soothe my head
That buzzes and churns

Words clear the clouds from my sun
They make me who I am

When I'm lost in the dark city
Lips pressed to the bottle
Short skirt and,
cigarette smoke
Words guide me back
Writing makes me remember
The little girl I hide away

I found a part of myself on the banks of a distant river
This girl that will stand up for something
Hope for more
Look beyond the murky waters to an endless sky
Float along the banks
With a purpose in life
We trudged along, sailing past lives
Put on our boots and discovered another side
In between the lines
These people, they changed my perspective in a week
Thank you to the people that ponder and read
One hundred books a year
Whose purpose and future is clear
Those who have been in the eighth grade for years
Once were part of the swat team - so I hear
Who tell jokes that remain untranslated
Found hope away from home and built dreams, settled down far away with their family
Braid like no one's watching (Thank you for your braiding talent - honestly)
Wear fedoras confidently
Break out the world record book
And bring people together under one cause
To travel away to the Amazon
Trying to help those on another continent
Water filters, guarana,
Guitars, and farinha
A caiman aboard
I found a part of myself in this land, untamed
Because of the people, the songs, and the rain
No goodbyes, friends for life
Setting our hopes high
There's this boat out on the river
That honks to call you in
This blue majestic gift that holds our memories within.

Frailer than dreams, love came,
soft as a song, shy as a glance,
but perfectly alive, into
the unkempt meadow of
my heart.

How to measure love…
a trillion nano-seconds
untranslated, flowers that
guess and miss, stars that
don’t exsit and what excuse
for not except « of course »
and « maybe »

For the syntax of love
is feeling, when chemistry
approves and life’s more
that a paragraph and death
a mere paraenthesis.

There's itch in the heart
The itch is untranslated
To the air and infiltrate...

Like Leviathan of old,
the rough, angry ocean
pummels the basalt shore
and coughs up its denizens
of the deep

California Gray Whales
breach the surface of
the autumnal Oregon waters, slide
over the waves like seals
on a hunt,
their colors mingling perfectly
with the yellow-tinged whitecaps,
their bodies aimed perfectly
at migration south.

How innocent they sound
as their songs penetrate
the cacophony of the
crashing surf.

How magnificent they sound;
untranslated poetry, haunting
love lyrics, caressing
the beloved with a sonata
of sonar.

Like a child, they sing for joy,
and the sea turns a deaf ear.

But I hear them. and am transfixed
by their emotion and intelligence.
They sing to me, a mammalian
serenade at dusk.

I dare not sing back
for fear of failure. Of foolishness.

Yet I weep to hear them sing again,
once more, before their majestic
passing to the milder seas of Mexico.