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The Grande Blue

The grande blue assails me forth
I have nor rhyme nor rhythm
The waves crash to endless froth
White plumes that sign beginning

I shall start here on the shoreline
And I shall never end henceforth
I shall be the endless, the void-less
The chain-less, the-

grande world

I shall see the eyes of God
In the million creatures there lie
I shall return to the bright blue
Only to submerge into it's trenches-

Where a million stars there shine
Where I am free, God, free
Free from you, from gravity

Love threads

They say the language of love is written inside us, Woven in threads of red and blue. The red thread runs deep, Pulsing with fire, surging life from the heart to every corner. We feels in the warmth of a hand held too long, In the quickening breath when eyes meet, In the restless ache of wanting someone you cannot forget. The blue thread flows the other way, Cool as midnight water in winter, Carrying the day's weight back to the heart to purify. It whispers in the hush after a storm, Carrying the ache of words left unsaid, Yet with quiet peace of knowing that the heart still waits. It is the

Styx

Black waters—
deep and dark and still.
All men have passed this way,
or will.


Published by The Raintown Review, Poezii (in a Romanian translation by Petru Dimofte), Blue Unicorn, Poem Today, Brief Poems and Form in Formless Times. 

Stalking Death

I rummaged through the ancient ruins
and scoured the carnage of our times.

I scanned the infinite realms
of the firmament,
Searched the scorching expanse
of the arid deserts,
I peeked into the crevices
of the broken hearts
and probed the dark domains
of the deranged minds.

I looked in the ashes
of the funeral pyre,
I ransacked every nook and cranny
of the cemetery
and forayed into the desolate womb
of the barren woman
But I did not find death.

I then looked at the first flush of spring
The rising robust sun

Weekend: The Beautiful Pause

The bell rings, not just in schools, but in bones. Children burst into Friday like balloons set free, dragging backpacks too light to worry, already dreaming of cartoons and cold cereal on the couch in yesterday’s clothes. Parents smile softer, meals linger longer, laundry piles forgiven until Sunday. Lovers find time again under sunsets or soft sheets, or in the simple stillness of not rushing goodbye. And the worker, ah, the worker drops the badge, the boots, the weight. The grind silenced, if only briefly, by sleep that doesn't need an alarm. This is the weekend’s glory: A door flung o

A HAND ON THE TILLER

A HAND ON THE TILLER

I know what it’s like being out of control
When life each day seems like a folderol
There’s something a bit off in one’s soul
Never any time to sweat, or even shiver
Being carried along in some rushing river
Without that grip of a hand on the tiller

When all is just an onward headless rush
And logical reasoning has turned to slush
A hole in the dyke where emotions gush
Now, no longer a place one should linger
When all it needed was an inserted finger
Or a timely squeeze from a tube of filler

My Inner Voice Told Me Part 2 (Serious Edits And Word Swops)

A plethora of complex verbal clogs and clutters solemn university tombs,
gem-encrusted sequestered  vaults  impact on  mountain peak percentage practical basis,
when express benevolence  enjoins ultimate in empirical  assessment  on concepts,
that ally one disregards at a perilous disbursement as factors in collateral,
As I can amply testify in copious quantity of valid case loads,
how that wisp is  your unique other silken angel voice,
it can be that flawless compass whose every point ineluctably,

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