I love when I become lost.
Plunged into the depths of Your presence.
Your Immanence palpable,
Your glory encompassing.
I fall,
I leap
I sing
And I dance with you.
A glimpse into your eyes and I see the universe laid bare
A star is born
And another dies.
All within an instant
I see it
And more,
I feel it.

As Arcturus sinks into the west
and Vega winks as if in jest
and Cygnus floats on the filmy milk
     of the Galaxy as slow
and stately as an ocean liner
overlooked by Ursa Minor,
as Lyra strums a song of silk
     joined by Scorpio,

who shakes his tail in a raucous rattle,
while Hercules sings songs of battle,
three figures in the moonless night
     meander by the cedar
across ten billion blades of grass
with beads of dew as bright as brass,
lost beneath the cosmic light—

May I Have This?



When Saturn comes back around

you'll be almost 30 years older

and all will be forgiven,

the razor's shining edge

dancing rings of ice:

resplendent, fractal, chaotic.


When he returns,

the holly may have slipped

over a regal eye or two,

burst limits may have yielded

a bright dispersal,

and pale rings may shiver ghosts

into a spangled night.


But the archetype of glory

is on every dance card,

two times on some,

with those tiny pencils on

The paper is my heart The words are my thoughts Poetry is my soul I would never trade it for the world

My flower, my song,
my dreams are pollen on the wind.
Watch the bright moon blossom.
Watch it drop its petals
like tears.

Forest mother, daughter of the sun.
Sweet companion of the mountain, flower, oh creation.
Ocean! River! Living fire, come;
destroy me and remake me, and over again eternally,
oh mine.

Her ten minutes sneak through the hole of an iron needle in the hand of a cobbler, who sits like a spider at a nook of the city. She’s broken on her shoes. ‘Wait’, his word stumbles over rum stink. Passersby give her ‘tribute’ with their glances, and the beauty blushes under the hot sun. She stoops her proud head, which sways intermittently towards the east and the west to check if some acquaintance is dropping a belittling eye. Miss Seena’s rich and noble, but with a little money. From issue #16 of The Literary Hatchet (Pear Tree Press, US)

I was rushed out of our home by the rough hand of my concerned father.
When I saw that he already packed our suitcases, I was already homesick.
I could barely keep up with him, as he practically dragged me through the crowd in the foggy weather.
I didn’t understand what was happening around my face, but everyone around me was in a panic.

My father rushed along with the crowd, sighing, as the street alarms were blaring loud,
Which only added to the tension of everything else going on around me.

It’s like I woke up from a dream.
A dream of laughter, a dream of bands, a dream of hair entangled in one’s hand. A dream of smiles, a dream of food, a dream of romance in the room. A dream of fear, a dream of tears, a dream of a slightly heated atmosphere.
The dream has shaped me, changed me, made me, as I open my eyes, expecting it to vanish.
But no, I’m still here, and nothing could ever tempt me to change it. 

Had you stayed,
you would have been delighted
with everything I had brought
that day – I had rushed back
in my blue Cadillac.

I had forgone those cheap souvenirs
from beach front shops and instead bought
one hundred grooved seashells and
Shiny coloured rocks – two dozen stars
from those long evening thinking about you –
Tints of the night on my skin from moonlit swims
and the songs of the sea in the shell of my ears –
I had stuffed all these treasures and more into my suitcase
when I drove back to you –
But…. You were already gone by then.