happy anniversary?

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there are mirrors everywhere

reflecting  images of you

lingering memories

time suspended above our heads

following us like a cloud or bubble

why do they linger

unfinished conversations

misunderstood moments

do they just linger

wanting,,, more of what was

time taken too quickly

I may have begun a transformation

my hands may have changed

nails, long and curved like a birds claws

the keen awareness of a crows eye

may now be my eyes

my hooked nose transformed into a beak 

flying in the night when the moon is bright 

looking for drifting moments of time

gathering our words that float loosely in the sky

many believe that cutting the wires that hold us

will relieve the tension and we will be freed 

freed to what conclusion I ask

free to look aimlessly into the sky

wondering what or why

we are told to love purely

we are told to honour our grief when the time comes

then we are told to leave it behind

to start a new

this might be the part

too difficult for me to do

my heart grows tired

covered with morning dew

let me sleep by the waves

so I may hear the music

of departed hearts 

bring me back to the waters 

so I may float in peace

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Time, Illusion or Reality​

Time Illustion or Reality 2018

looking into the mirror

seeing a reflection

glare of wonder

will the image change

if I lock on and freeze eye to eye

a slight burning of the lids distract

floaters passing by like fluffy clouds in an open sky

when they dissolve  and the mirror is again in focus

for a moment an image is captured

or a thought is born

no one really knows

I look again and 

past my reflection deep into a corner

I see life of a past time

like a movie reel ticking along

is our life present connected to our life past

do each play out in different zones

have I discovered the rabbit hole to my own existence

how often does our life play out

does my mirror reflect inside

reflect inside, reflect inside, inside, inside

past becoming present

present becoming future

is my life a kaleidoscope of time

do I even exist or 

am I just a flash of  light in the mirror 

are these my thoughts

my handwritten words

am I a form of electromagnet energy bits

collecting and passing time

is that me I see in the mirror

or is it something else

something I don’t yet understand

1500 Words Of Hope

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I ache for the solitude of my mind 

memories are a river

flowing over a bed of stones 

swimming against the current 

tires me, weakens my will

my hands raw from grabbing branches passing

toes scratched and bleeding

hitting debris of partially covered metal

garbage thrown mindlessly

We do not deserve this planet

for we do not know of sharing

the constant spitting of foul words

over land that cannot be owned by any humans

every child born is a breath of hope

for they do not enter with  hate and prejudice

formed in their minds

Are my memories selected from the riverbed

do I only walk on the rocks I prefer

choosing my memories carefully

leaving buried in the sand

moments to difficult carry

is this justice or survival

this question surfaces often

do we recreate the past

making it palatable so we can move on

or is this just living a lie

do we all live these lies

there is no comfort in great numbers 

A stream is created from the abundance of rocks left on the riverbed

it rises and depletes with the flow

soon there will be no rivers flowing to the ocean

only dry riverbeds

full of our leftover unpleasant memories

thrown into the waters like scrap metal

left till someone swims by and cuts flesh

blood flows in the stream

absorbed by the wet earth

the seeds and life has to grow

do we really want them to start with our mistakes

our hatred, our jealousy 

I have no answers

no solutions

I can only try and carry my own rocks

to the river’s edge

so it may support the earth from falling in

if a stream is hope
then the river is ambition
the ocean is acceptance
the rain is sharing

no human or country can ever own the clouds and rain

is that why my eyes always look to the skies

looking for those beautiful clouds that dance and bring hope

one thousand

five hundred

words of hope



Pull Down The Blinds

Photo on 2018-08-27 at 11.24 AM


what is in this cornfield, that pulls me in

deep green with dusting of gold on each leaf

tops adorned with essence of rose and amber

distant views fill with light green rows 

bobbing on the earth like waves in the ocean

when a breath is caught

it’s past from leaf to leaf 

zigzagging the open field

this cornfield that pulls me

the sky is bright

I stay indoors, hiding from the sun

I raise my shoulder and shy away
feels like kryptonite

the sun does not energize me

it does not fill my heart with joy

instead, it steals from me

or so I imagine

If I could pull the blind

invite the calmness of the grey sky

feel the turbulent clouds rushing by

the echo of thunder feels like music

if I could do this

would it soothe, would it calm, would it ease
the electricity that runs through me


august 27 2018


meditate 08 18


how must we be
living underneath the ginkgo tree

does it shade our skin
or venture further therein

sounds of violins

how then do we meditate
when wearing a steel breastplate
our thoughts locked in the crate
waiting for our time of fate
or is it too late
can we ever fully clean the slate
is the task too great

how then will we erase

all the tears gathered in the vase
stained thoughts on paper plate
time to regurgitate
seasoned words of late

layered pages lie in state
sign of fate

august 18 2018

Brave Little Lyon


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they go off in the night

when the time feels right

to find a place that is soft and permanent 

a place, hidden from passers-by

a place where they prepare to die

it saddens me

to imagine him alone

walking softly across the fields

so far from home

is it a trance or a meditative state 

when they know so clearly 

when they prepare and  take the walk

do they sit in the dark and gaze at the moonlight

sending meditative signals to the afterlife

then wait till the porthole opens

somehow I don’t believe 

that they review their life

that they sit in a pool of regret  

counting the mice or chipmunks that got away


he became a memory of himself

so thin and yet the hunter never left him

seeing him walk across the field with a large gift in his mouth

laying it on the wooden planks 

an offering, a gift  a great achievement 

he would then lie down with his back to it

shoulders off the floor like a sphinx 

so proud and worthy of praises he received 

how something so little in size

could fill so much space in my heart

the gap leaves me feeling weakened 

so many lovely, sweet pets I love 

the auntie that loves them 

while their family travels

I believe that we don’t choose 

connections with humans or animals

I believe in my Buddhist teachings 

that a soul is a soul is a soul

whether we are human or not 

the soul is what connects us

this little guy knew of his place in my heart

to look into his little face and feel his thoughts

not word for word 

but understanding 

compassion and comfort

last night I dreamt of a baby

I held it, wrapped it for warmth

held it so close to me

each with tearful eyes

believing that my heartbeat would keep its heart beating

the room, the blanket, the rooftops all white 

sleep my prince, my friend

till we join hearts again

July 18 2018

Thunder, Whispered In My Ear



a whisper in my ear

air changes 

the night becomes still

standing by the screened door 

filled with the night sky

four shades brighter 

no stars visible in the grey 

a distance flicker of white 

followed by the roar of thunder

I have been waiting for you

where have you been 

the days have been difficult

hot, thick with little air to breath

what has taken you so long

the room lights up  

clear as day 

then goes away

I can see you moving from me

why not stay a while 

unload some of that weight

surely all that rain gets heavy

you can leave some here 

no one will mind

the grass  welcomes it with open blades

the trees with roots so large and long 

can store for you 

we do like the sound you make 

as you walk across the fields

the cheers can be heard for miles 

the leaves clapping with joy

sadly your thunder has no patients 

to sit and visit

always on the move

across the fields and over small towns

I can feel your impatience

the visit is almost over, this makes me sad

you are just a passing stranger 

blinking white light as you go by

I heard you coming from the north 

now you have walked over me 

to head south-east

yes I can hear you crackling 

clearing your throat 

your sneezing lights all the treetops

you come, you leave you never stay long

you rumble along singing the same song 

I’m glad you whispered in my ear

so I could wake and be here with you

thank you! 

you never leave without 

filling our buckets, pond, rivers and streams 

brimming with your brew

you are music to my ears and bring joy to my heart


look after our friend 

for he has just entered your world

the world of the sky

he wears a happy fluffy white beard with round specs

he writes from the heart 

maybe  you can show him the ropes 

invite him to follow you around a bit 

getting the feel of the open sky

hold his hand so he doesn’t get lost 

for the universe is a very big place

it’s dark again and your rain is fading

I can barely hear your distance voice

thank you for the gifts

stay for a day next time

I’ll get my rain gear ready so we can walk together

so we can chat 

remember the chats

we have had such great times

you rumbling your stories 

me standing beneath you 

showered by your laughter 

playing in the puddles you would create for me

I can’t remember how long we have known each other

I do remember 

you always came to my rescue 

when the fields got too hot to work in

I could hear you crackling across 

we would all run and sit in the big walnut tree 

and be so entertained by the dancing water puppets

the sky is now completely black

you’re gone 

have you heard anything I said

july 17 2018 3;23am

R.I.P. Poet Paul Lenzi


IMG_8887 (1).jpgproudly and effortlessly 

he walks to the heavens

on a golden staircase 

created of his words

to walk and feel as light as a feather

for every step is of his making

he leaves behind not a black hole of worthlessness

he leaves behind  the greatest of gifts

his heart, his thoughts, his wonder

never will he leave completely 

for he has built a staircase 

of himself, of his inner soul, of his aspirations

he has gifted all of us that did not know him


my Love Affair with


once, I read from cover to cover

waiting for things to discover

of  late this is not the state

for  my mind needs an update

once, the pages were the main meal

something real, exploring diel

was that the appeal or learning to be genteel

when one is young there is no need to conceal 

the love of teal or reason to kneel

once, is now past for everything feels fast

quick plays from a cast performed to the mass

eyes feel glassed, purpose surpassed

thrown last from the blast

feeling die-cast or miscast

now, my pages are tasty treats

of pickled beets and other eats

to feast upon the sheets

or walking down the streets

there are no cheats with smiles from meets

would be no completes without our cleats and pleats

for we are not athletes or numbers on spreadsheets

we are not deadbeats that work on Bradstreet

for we own our heartbeats and parakeets

now, I cover myself with book and page

discovering many a stage without wage

for I adore my age and the smelling of sage

july 11 2018

The Line Of A Pencil

If we allow ourselves to be free
will my drawings speak to me
free of shame
or self-imposed blame
Not all lines speak
from memories deep
from staring at our toes
to echoing early years of ‘nos’
If we allow ourselves to be free
will my drawing lead me through the trees
to follow the path hidden by the shade
to raise my pencil and sharpen its blade
for a pencil can lacerate
or draw a line for bait
causing us to think we are frauds
in truth, we are just a little flawed
There is no choice or well-conceived plan
for when the crow calls we run to where it began
some call it having the mind of a child
I prefer to believe, we never gave up being wild
even if it means being exiled
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