Free Verse
“Poetry is, as a rule, either the voice of the far future, exquisite and ethereal, or it is the voice of the past, rich, magnificent. The poetry of the beginning and the poetry of the end must have that exquisite finality, perfection which belongs to all that is far off. It is in the realm of all that is perfect. But there is another kind of poetry: the poetry of that which is at hand: the immediate present. In the immediate present there is no perfections, no consummation, nothing finished. The strands are all flying, quivering, intermingling into the web, the waters are shaking the moon. Without beginning and without end, without any base and pediment, it sweeps past forever, like a wind that is forever in passage, and un-chainable. It is called free verse: the soul and the mind and body surging at once, nothing left out. They speak all together.” ~D.H. Lawrence, 1919, “New Poems”
-
Fridays, a Threshold
A poem for those who feel Fridays are more than an end—an invitation to dream, release, and rediscover.
-
Beauty in the Cracks: A Journey of Transformation
Beauty heals in the cracks of life, transforming pain into strength.
-
Faceless
I wrote this poem toward the end of 2020, when the “Covid-19 pandemic” was in full swing and many theories about the whole situation flourished. What was certainly true about that time was the heartbreak of loss, loneliness, fear, anxiety and anger it caused. Her smile was like a beacon of hope in a faceless crowdWhere a strange arctic atmosphere spread like oxygen-ignited fireDagger eyes and cutting words give chaseGod forbid she expose her glowing rosy cheeks and lips ! What fragile state we have become where the sight of exposed skin triggers rageAnd the slightest touch elicits a cascade of horror and outrageWhere men, women, and children sit in…
-
The Drifter
Revenge doesn’t pay. Not even in the wild west. My intention was to write a sliver of life from the wild west, focusing on setting the mood and attitudes through descriptors and limited speech, and reflecting that period of time. This is a minimalistic approach to poetic story-telling. Similar to the method in which I wrote Revelations and Still, The Waters Call. 1: The Stage The day stretched as long as a hangman’s noose stifling in its sincerity as a spring dayLazy day shadows crept ever deeper A slow, melodic picking of a guitar set the toneWeather-worn fingers strum across a gut string tunerLeathered face under the wide brim…
-
Love Letter – C
It has been months since we last drew breath togetherMy body and mind ache for you, my loveI fear my own sanityMy maid servants fear me… and well they should !From sun’s birth to its death, I crave youIf only it would do my bidding and bring you to meFor am I not a goddess who commands all ?And you a god? I smell you in my mindMy obsession is completeYour very thought a torture upon my soulWhy do you do this to your goddess? I know notThe thought of your touch brings me to the precipice of ecstasyA whirling painful ecstasyI want you flowing inside me, over me, beside…
-
Revelations
Night of the howling moonWhispers of a fate to comeGateway’s heavy chains rattleSpirits attune to the summoningWisps of dragon’s breath fills the darknessA yawning chasm cracks open Whispers on the wind:come sing to us Upon the mount they waitInsanity, a temporary measureAll thought dissolvedPreening wails of delightScratching, crawling, bitingTearing at each other And yet, whispers on the wind:come play with us Thunder rumbles in the distanceCracks of lightning streak across the red skyEarth shakes with nervous anticipationThe storm approachesIts winds grow fierceThe prophesies of the Book of Joel revealed Voices carry on the wind:come be with us A lone wolf circles the mount, haunches highRed hatred its only sightGuardian of…
-
Woven
A vast and desolate placeA sleek, dark voidThe pit of remembrance A memory of once long agoA sweet moment of brief respiteLost in the moon tide A voice devoid of emotionAn old record on a turntable — the end of a sad songScratching at the surface of consciousness A set of eyes that cannot seeA pair of hands that ache to touchEternal pain without knowing truth A basket woven of humanityA black tentacle weaving through our soulsJoining us forever in obscure machinations of life A moment of clarityA chilling truthThe façade is finally over. Life Series #3 Previous in the series: Jade Vine Next in the series: The Kiss
-
Driver
We wander through life, it seemsWithout aim or direction Waiting for something magical to happenAlways waiting or delaying or procrastinatingNow that’s a word: procrastination Life seems to be one long stall of actionYes, we go through the motions We get up, work, go to bedThe monotony of lifeThat can’t be all there is This pattern repeats time and againIf this were all there was to life What would be the point?We ask ourselves, what would be the point?The point, someone might say, is not to do it Surely we are not here merely to take up spaceIn this vast world of living organisms Weeds and wild flowers tend to sprout at willAny given place…
-
Greed
Purveyors of evilWoven through the fabric of societyWhere greed becomes the new cultureAnd lies the new truth Emptiness fills our spacesWanton lives evolve into breathing hatredCrushed spirits litter the streetAnd death lingers everywhere Unimaginable suffering a lasting effectHearts slayed and scattered to the windMind bereft of pure thoughtAnd clouded with deceit What is right and just a mere wisp of passing windReality trampled by stampeding lustHealth of the body invadedAnd knowledge forsaken Masters of terror reign like volcanic ashUncaring of life, of hope, of loveDestroyers of freedomAnd sanctity of thought Walkers of the night, they areScavengers of dirtMotionless pillars of antiquityAnd fearful of light Feed on their friends and enemies…
