Category: Poetry

Here is where my deepest heart lies. These writings emanate from the many times when my passion hits the bottom and other times where it seems to fly on wings. To solace myself, I go to the woods on deep forest trails, pray to waterfalls, look over valleys, and dip my hands in the waters of springs, hoping to soothe myself. Forgive me if I get angry; for at times I’m just plain mad at the world.

The Ocean Welcomes Me Back

She knows me. Though, I haven’t seen All that she is….. All her anger and angst Frozen at times, treacherous. I know her From the safety of my footing. She can pull me, She pulls me, I am pulled Not by ebb, but by…

Modern Yin Yang

The sky, always young, always ancient Hazy in crisp, clear, cold fog Brazen in the brightest blue Until indigo sets flames to red Or the mist seeps us into night. Where soft transient sleeping eyes Free feet from the faculty of ground   Alarm…

Christmas Presence

Late, Christmas night, wandering past your home. I see your face in the window, warm, buried in your phone, your lamps glow There’s a fuzziness about your image   The trees, their winter arms angling for musty sky, starless. The atmosphere’s full of their…

Mnemosyne

Her arm, a light porcelain, marbled with a series of veins and arteries. Sometimes she thinks she’s cold, a stone. She takes a sacred bath, a bit too warm for many, candles burning messages into her sweat, to see through the cold, if she…

Dab Of Warmth

There are mild spots between winter’s beating of grayness Where breaths, in ease, are breathed…gloves are placed in pockets or lost on streets of snow Mixed in that scattered brown batter of orphaned leaves. The sun appears as a stranger, speaking a forgotten tongue, yet familiar tone Trying to…

Undercurrents

  How leaves lie around his house…placed, as if in a certain order. How the sky is colorless above his roof, matching the freeways.   The only chance for him to see color and chaos is the sea But the ocean is forbidden inland,…

Openness

 Shining from its source, from out a promising window.  Birds fly into the glass.           (Trust can’t be a construct, it’s wild.)  

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