Forget about MYTHS of our own blood
Thousands are now in despised LEAFS of handheld malls
Celebrated by well-known bureaucratic weapon SAYING it has more pleasure
In this dilemma of ACCEPTING unconscious behaviors
Even floods condemn this abomination era
Whitewash black history with DEMEANING theatre
Swimming in this landscape of JUSTIFYING lust
SMILING with no cultural ease
It is already here. Dark times SINGING
Like a hypocrite PREPARED to die for his illusion beliefs
This is unpassionate WORLD
Nature paints in exquisite detail.
I saw ruby, copper, and gold
as on a rustic trail I strolled
under the canopy of a rustic trail.
Away from the city bustle,
I heard what no one sees,
critters and a gentle breeze,
as through trees they rustle.
I think of memory and time, like thieves,
and on the things I've lost, I muse,
as my thoughts, themselves, I lose
in the Autumn leaves.
Mourns the loss of youth.
Regrets the love that she lost.
Peers out her window
Gray and fuzzy dreams.
Two fingers stained yellow tap
on her aching knee.
Tea, long past tepid,
jiggles a stark reflection
staring back at me.
lavender rain
fingers windowpanes.
the old clock
forgets directions,
letting autumn storms
wander through
its hands
Biting cold night
Tears on a rose
Her petals turn gray
Death sucks her life away
She stands alone in feeling
No one knows her secret cries
She has shed away her hopes
Her beautiful soul holds memories
Of times sunshine kissed her face
Now darkness swamps her world
On the grave where they have laid her to rest
A MILLION DYING EYES
A million dying eyes
Bear witness to the night
High above the snow and glass
Just the other side
Wind blowing through your hair
Headlights passing by
Breath catching on the air
The road
We walked beside
You pulled a hair from your lips
Pushed it back aside
You reached for me
And there I was
Just to say goodbye
A million dying eyes
Won't care
No matter, hard we try
Snow falling, chasing us
But no where we can hide
Just look above, this lonely night
And see we're still inside
There's no escape
The both of us
Till One of us decides
Addendum: TOUT EST VRAI
Sometimes I fear
I’ve never known you -
like a leaf might think
it knows its mother tree
from spring
to summer
to fall—
ing
into winter’s
cold, hard ground,
severed from the branches
that once nourished it.
Caught in a season
where familiarity
finds itself face to face
with formality,
and transition
resembles exile.
Maybe one day what is left of me
will sink deep enough
to find something I could never see
from the branches -
where darkness can decipher
whether I never knew you,
or whether knowing you
was never supposed to mean
I wouldn’t fall.
I'd rather smile than cry in front of you
I'd rather cry than wait for you
I'd rather read than sing for you
I'd rather write than talk to you
I'd rather dream than actually face you
I'd rather sleep than dream about you
I'd rather be everything without you than watch the red string evaporate with you.
I might write letters to you or mean words to rattle the cage of a soul in despair and be THROUGH
I might play an unknown tone like a deal with the devil, like a tear on a keynote, on a piano.
I will play for you.
Once or twice I might end up dreaming a faceless you-
The soft winter, cold water, warm sunshine and leaning against you under the blanket i quietly crawled into-
I will see you
But I 'd always be everything without you than believe in another lifetime with you.
In dreaming you come to me
And we kiss
And although three and a half decades
Have passed now since we last did
And you have now passed as well
As have any memory of kissing you then
In the moment our lips meet
Mine receptive, yours strongly intensional
I remember you clearly
As if no time has passed between us
As if your kiss carries your essence
And always has
And in that moment of remembering
I think I will always know you
Know your heart, and the love
Of all that is better left unsaid.
(10/5/26)
He said *someone else*
as lightly as if he were asking for water.
The glass between them was almost full.
She had prepared herself for goodbye,
not for the life he had already begun imagining without her.
She watched his mouth make a life without her—
his shoes beside another door,
his voice entering another morning,
his hand becoming familiar in someone else’s hand.
A drop of water slid down his glass
until the table took it.
There are moments when the body becomes strangely polite
to its own destruction.
Her hands stayed folded
even when every nerve in them wanted his sleeve.
When he stood, the chair dragged once against the floor—
a brief, ugly sound, then silence.
Some names are spoken until
there is nothing left to ask of them.
The door closed.
The room kept its two chairs, one table,
his unfinished water,
the faint warmth where his hand had been.
By evening, the world still had its evidence—
her footsteps, her shadow,
the quiet pulse at her wrist.
She went home with everything the world could see,
and without the one thing it could not.
Entry 47: The place where the missing years were kept. Referenced in several dreams but never located. Witnesses disagree whether it was a room, a season, or a river. Its absence remains unusually well preserved.
I traced old roads
through sleep,
past mile markers
erased by weather.
Something
had gone on living
without me.
At dawn,
the map contained
one less horizon.
In the evening a frog in the pool squeezes
That is him slowly tearing a paper of the letter
Which was long time waiting for a reader
About the tempers of the spring breeze
The toad of the moon fell into the night
Alike the moonlights smoothly dumping water
For pursuing a company to the lonely spirit
Warm and tender
The evening is dark and cold for sorrow
Allowing tears no longer waiting for a breath
Touching out the temper of the spring breeze
As Soft and quiet as a quiet lady of dews
Grief is a ghost writer filling the page
Tearing the soul and drowning in rage
Exposing the pain of one that is lost
Searing the mind whatever the cost
Penning the end of all that was shared
Punishing angst for those that are spared
A heart that still beats but loses its rhythm
Trapped in a world where light has no prism
Darkness is now all which is seen
For love that is lost, a love so serene
PERSEPHONE
The rivers on the rise
Fires sweeping through the trees
You gather up the strings
Loose, your memories
letters under sweaters
All the useless things
Bind them all together
That meant so much to me
Laying out your tarot
Spinning in the air
A flower on the gallows
By letting down your hair
Melting in a forge
A lock without a key
Hecate with her torch
To your Persephone
Waiting out your limbo
To leave without a trace
Searching for that window
Stepping into space
Diana with her arrow
Her hounds of hurt and love
One to wound with words
One to lick the cuts
Talking over coffee
Leading to affairs
Writing me that letter
And stepping off the chair
Hecate aided Demeter by searching for Persephone through the night with her torches, later becoming Persephone's companion in the underworld.
My grief is a ghostwriter
who pens the pages of my poetry
culled from lost love
and the quiet tragedy of pain
bubbling in the concealed crucible
of my wounded heart
that spills words out like a pyroclastic flow
burning with emotion upon a poetic page
to express a shadowed loneliness
still damp from my yesterday's sadness
when love was an untarnished tender leaf
before it began to spiral and curl
from a cold wind of change
to leave me a lonely sparrow on the wing
immersed in an empty sky
following sadness toward a dim-lit darker pathos
where words are whispered in a melancholy misery
as my heart pleads to be heard
from the expressed poetry of my soul
scarred from the illusion of rapture
that lived and died...if only I could forgive
the gloom of promises from lovers
found on the boundary of misplaced dreams
scorched by the fangs of fire...that left ashes
scattered throughout the landscape of my heart
where my saddest poetry is scribed
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