The stream (all workshops)
And this is what we call cyclic
all changes
hands face and smile
once who led you to school
now stands cool
awaiting your arrival
the one who buttered your toasts for you
now waits a soft slice of bread from you
the one who kissed you daily to school
now waits for a kiss
will you give she thinks
a tear flows down her cheek
she knows smells now her repose
the son too has also gone through change
his consort is all for whom he remains
Numbness creeping in
Like poison vines strangling
New growth amidst fresh earth
Weeping tears into mud
Feral cries of grief
Splinter the air
Like shards of glass
From a broken mirror
Pick up the pieces
Bleed through the pain
It's just one cut of many
Embracing the insane
All my demons
Out on the town
One by one
They swallow you down
Repressed no more
I've shown them the door
The gloves are off
And they've come out to play
where has the bright love gone
it was almost gone
without me without you
who am i, just thinking about you
did you even love me back or
where does the glowing love go
i hope you don't go
i won't leave you i promised
and you said you'd soon have promised
wonder if you'll ever promise or
where is the sparkling love going
know i'm not going
know you're here with me forever
so know we're stuck here forever
but does anybody know for sure or
I’m standing on the ledge.
How would it feel to fall?
I step closer to the edge.
I’m about to risk it all.
I hear you call my name,
From the bottom of the landing.
Urging me to take the leap,
Gently and undemanding.
I wonder what waits for me,
If I ever land.
I can taste your kiss from here.
Feel your touch with gentle hand…
You call me once again,
Your voice calmer than before.
“Just jump, my love, I’ll catch you.
I promise that, and more.”
I heard the crows
while walking today.
They cried from high trees,
perched like watchmen
sending out a call to arms,
warning of some unforeseen
mischief, an omen, perhaps,
for another day.
I stopped to listen,
watched as they flew from
one branch to another,
voices rising,
their black robes worn
like high court judges,
keen eyes on the world below,
allowing me to pass
as I considered their
abrupt, discerning
silence.
i grieve,
i have seized bourbon darkness in a chokehold
with my tongue holding it captive
bashing against my teeth.
i grieve,
my tear ducts birth a million sawdust grains
in the stolid hours,
between the rooster choir,
and the morning mass.
i grieve,
that I saw you a crushed leaf in the garden
before the day of pruning,
that I am too powerless,
unable to intervene
or to fully let go.
Long deep intake of breath
slowly expel out the mouth...
quiet steps following
from north country headed south.
Catching sight of my prey
in the blue ice field ,
Sun in his watering eyes
my position is now a shield.
Marksman behind him, zeroing in
slow intake of air, a silent breath...
Still as a statue, squint of one eye
squeeze of the trigger finds his death.
You are nothing but
the devil
look at you,
now look at me.
Can't you see me
crying here the hell
you walk away.
You said you really
love me but I can
see that you're a fake.
For you are nothing
but the devil and use
me every time, so
when will I say screw
it all, go lay in my
grave and die.
His Poems soar,
briefly brushing
an aching firmament,
he weeps of forever
in untold fields,
littered with poets
enthralled and touching
brushed wheat words
Epochs float
outside the lines,
sailing unsettled water
cascading currents,
sailing us off course
we are wrecked
more than than
making port
In minute moments
brilliance blossoms in ink,
vast galaxies of wisdom
fall from the heavens,
it is then we observe
the substance
of his soul
People watch others, but look out for themselves
They look down on people, from a high shelf
A latitude of selfishness, where people are pages
The rich are poor in morals, as the poor are put in cages.
Books teach you much, life will teach you more
The bottom of the shelf is reserved for the poor.
Snobbery appears to me, a certain kind of wrong
Where the books on the right, there underneath…
The pages are torn, each chapter is grief.
People are books, and like them we will rot
You think you have it bad; the poor are worse off
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