nubthousands of wasted wordsand still no poems
lovemy joy in you was short livedmy sorrow everlasting
the open roadthe road beckonsand I will answerI will ride Highway 65until my gas money gives outand leave my tired Buickin a soft ditch with the kudzuI'll walk until I finda place that touches me a soft patch of cool grasswith a view of the whole big sky a quiet placewhere I can lay myself downand no longer weepwith wearinessthe stars will shine downfrom the sea of nightand I'll smile whenI close my eyesknowing I can nowrun onforever
Tank Away 11The winter solsticehas passed. Winter nights will shorten,hearts warming with hope.And from the soft, hushed darkness,a new sun begins to rise.
running errandsit's not theeggs or milkor breadthat I'm afterit's the soundlonelyis quietand whenthe silencescreamsI mustfill itwithother people'snoise
dreamerhe's goneever searching forgreener pasturesand she droopslike a flowerin the rainwaiting againfor hisreturn
incalculablehe's good to mewe eat at nice placesand never arguehe's gentle in bedbut he isn't youwe lived onpeanut butter,ramen noodlesand the world fadedwhen you cameinto viewdisappeared utterlywhen you took mein your handshe loves meyou almost killedme with your leavingbut if you roared backinto my world tomorrowhe'd be forgotten bythe time we reachedthe highway
lightlesssince you've goneyour memory lay upon my worldlike a shadow across the suna point of impenetrable darknessfor which there isno remedy
revenantsome nights,dreams aren't enoughwhen the acheruns deep,I need more thanremembered embraces,imagined trysts,more than hopesof tomorrow, next week,next yearI want the truthof your bulkbeside me whenI turnin the dark,the realityof warm skinnot my own,the unknowingof lonelybut you're not here(and no one else will do)so I willtoss and turnin the cold armsof my dreamingonce more
we who are wearywe who were afraid of those dim evenings,homesick for the soft rains which werenever ours,are uncertain again ofthe waning stroke of the moon.we who embrace the wickedleave the seasons to maneuver themselvesand wind into each other,sure of their graceful oblivion.we who are weary descend,following our fingers as they are rising,risingfollowingescapingthe thick air before it can kill,we who were once war personified,worn down,wornwarn them of our great coming.and we shall not run,but walk.
january, the last moonbase of 2014The fatigue-factoriesshut downfor the holidays,hobbies sighinginto light, casual clouds.It's two weeks of middling sleep,a lucidity in calm.I'll read Kushner and Heany,rest like the pigeon guardssnoozing in the peaceful nightwhen morning, their branch-gobletcapturing the arctic infinityof moisture above.The moon, shining,beside fraternalJupiter, hispinprick winklightbroadcasting, broadcasting,2015.
In This Little MicrocosmIn this little microcosma world of patterns existWater and sand collide, creating intricate forms.Some smooth and long, others tight.Parts of the earth, stronger and fixed,splays playground about which to caper.Daily, at first moon's signal,water rushes in, at times in torrent, by others, caress.Each day's forces create their own patterns,in deference to this fluid and complex dance.Then, at second moon's signal,water retreats, as sand becomes calm and nestled,spiriting away particles to mix for return,whilst lingering dampness absorbs.How would water know complexity without sand's presence?The contrast of murkiness and clarity?How would sand refine and nourish lifewithout the movement of water?And of the stone...What would the water flow around and over?What sensation would exist,to define the water's dexterous nature against its solid lover?And the stone, without water,would never know smooth form,nor polished finish, born of time and persistence,nor wet reli
Wolf TrailA pair of eyesglow yellowin the darknessof the night.He has takenthe trailthrough the forest.Hiddenin the thicketand under cover of the trees,he sneaks up.He persists ...attentive -cautious -hidden -undiscovered.He isvery beautiful,but rarelydoes someone catch sightof him.Why has heleft his pack?Why does he sneakalonethrough the forests?His eyesglisten ...They tell of timeswhen hewas chased.He was weak -at that time,too weak to hunt,too weak to protect.The packdid notneed him.The weak arean obstacle.So, he wasbitten -kicked -chased.Since then,he has been passing alonethrough the forests,has been oberservinginsilent nightsfrom afarandhas been dreaming ...His eyesshimmer wet.Quickly,he turns away,disappearingin the darknessof the forest.On the ground,a pearlremains behind ...glittering -sparkling -bright -illuminatedby the moonlight ...The tear of the wolf.
Life of mist / Viata din ceataEnglish:I see the life of mistits silentious murmurthe breath that dancesin illuminated patchesThe corner of urban disconnectionIt's a bird's flightCaressing tranceWithin the life of mistThat surrounds usHere, we are everywhere,Disintegrated wholeWe sway in the mistWe are a universe,With suns that danceWith us, fireflies,Hyperactivity in the bonesBecause we seeThe life of mistRomana:Vad viata din ceataMurmurul silentiosSuflarea ce danseazaIn bucati de luminaColtul deconectarii urbaneE zbor de pasari,Transa ce mangaieIn viata cetiiCe ne invaluieAici, suntem peste tot,Intregi dezintegrati,Ne leganam in ceataSuntem un universCu sori ce danseazaCu noi, licurici,Hiperactivitate in oasePentru ca vedemViata din ceata
Paper CranesTo take to the starsOn weightless wings of gilded treesThat never failAnd never cease;A rapid continuum of beauty,Dusk’s rays diffusing through the firmamentBringing cerulean licked midnight greys on crest.Twinkling eyes to light their predestined pathBlinking only when a cloud passes by.They shiver and twitch…The metal hands of tinkerous manWrapped lovingly around their fragility.The room is seeping with anticipationWhen placed one by one on the sill.They shiver and twitch…Shiver;Twitch;Fold;Wings bend on delicate creasesTesting limitations with quick mischievous flapsThe moon casts her spell on the windowsillLuring in the essenceIlluminating the thousand works of artBefore they rise into the expectant nightTo take to the stars
below the treelinein mountain chill, immobilemute, mesmerizedbeneath scattered night-blown clouds -i see hundreds of evergreen treeslike attentive dark arrows, aimingstraining toward a full moonthey appear unified in readiness -perhaps to pursue a placeless despoiled by... Us?llp - dA - dec2014
There May Be Hope for Us Yet.Through candle lights and the sound of stringsI see the world evolve in all of its glories,It remains complex and clean, pristineIt shines through ages of metal, and the mountains stand tallRivers of golden lightThey chuckle and cluck, as the soft stones that slumber underneathtickle their toesThe sand between my fingersAshes of civilizations long pastThey still war with hatred as ancient as the skyTides of battle become sand, in time.All of that is long gone, it seemsFor humanity has taken its last steps among the soilMothers of sand, Fathers of ash, and Children of the dustThey all disappear in a momentA twinkle of a distant starAn everlasting spectacular glow upon all the landsAnd, to think, nature can resume...There may be Hope for us yet.
Scavenge carrion fowldarkness in contrastdrifting on currentsgliding with easespiraling with gracedescending unrushedwingtips spreadrustle of feathersvying for a mealover one which had its last
Rise and ShineRimmed in darkness,the sun edges overthe horizon and shakesoff the remnants of night,a bright orange plate ona dark blue tablejust in time forbreakfast.