into the thaw of a dying winter
I have come to find you
beneath discarded shoes of bridges
where red rust is the graffiti of the sky
written in the blood of the rain

you are born there looking up
unspoken black in the hollow of the pipes
the channeled water in the hearts infrastructure
where bones find innocent children
to ask about the gravity of birds

For sure, I’m a creative egoistic poet

I have composed over 8000 poems, yes, 8000... during the past two plus years... as I was confined in the snows, not to be forgotten... As you know no two poems of mine... fall in a slab...albeit they might seemingly give off similar perfume .If a poet is understood, then one is no poet at all.
For creativity is not at its verges end
It’s not a cliff
but an echo on a cliff
which sounds
resounds
and
rebounds
but never fades into the realms
of frameless eternity...

I've seen the starlings roost in winter
in giant canes and bare oak trees
(any drab black bird was free to enter)
so many they looked like dark leaves
brought there by a stiff cold breeze.

Each bird cried out loudly as it could
in a raucous non-melodic voice
trying to be understood
but only adding to the noise
as if left with little choice.

A LESSER GOD
What is it they see
What is my sin, my flaw
What creature have I become ?

Why do I always lose
to a lesser god.

Where is the magic
I once had
the words of seduction
the powers that enchant
and the voice that sings
enchantment?

The wounds bleed deep
deeper now than ever before.
I ache for my yesterdays.
I was stronger then
Stronger than today
I fear the pain
tomorrow will bring
again