Monday, February 17, 2014


poets are forever listening
for luminous things
seeing the blue bird sing
touching the taste of autumn
sensing what mood the moon is in
poets were once flowers
knowing how it feels
to dance with the wind
embrace the rain
and feel the pain
of carless trampling
poets see a thing of beauty
and conclude
all begins and ends in mystery
in a crystal vase run dry
poets ask why
to get no answer
it doesn’t matter
they go deeper
where no questions exist
only unknown certainties

Walking The Silent Path

walking the silent path
I worry for the miniature world
beneath my feet
Greek God of destruction
crushing hopes and dreams
displacing families
just on their way
an ordinary day
the sun smiles down
through rows of trees
tall and welcoming
not harming anything
until they fall
like Greek Gods
across the silent path
the sun rising
warm and smiling
I hear no screams
life and death
a daily thing
just clumsy gods out walking


Morning is breaking through the mist
silent and trembling like a first kiss
down through the alleys all covered with rain
shoes ring out echoes lonely and strange

Footsteps that lead so far away
down through the street and out of the day
down to the sea and down through the years
awash with roses and cold with tears

Sleeping cobble stones windows empty
dark turns to light forlorn and heavy
no sounds now not even the wind
the sun rising, the day set to begin

A Packet of Standing Waves

I am
a packet of standing
on and off, on and off
here one moment
gone the next
what creation is this?

I heard
god was lonely
master bated
spreading the seed like dandelion
commanding the wind to blow
over gods green earth
a sewer dump of unconsciousness

I read that two female mice
had a baby together
and they didn’t call it Mickey
they called her Sophia
her name is forgotten
she limps along
flickering as the wax melts down

I hear a lot of things
children being drawn
to angels
and pain just
a passing ship
nothing real is threatened

when you whisper my name
I hear you
I love you
I am always near you
if you whisper or not
the heart is my guru
the pot is full

with water for my flowers
and nothing for my weeds
drawing the soul
into the pilots chair
of my little self
seems everyone has
an agenda

even the heart
here one moment
gone the next
the landscape
forever changing
reflecting all of creation
the waves keep moving