On the peak, look over the valley
of a billion stories, pity and joy.
In the swamp, follow the stars.
Natural light loves what is,
kit & caboodle, unconditional,
in heavy weather and calm.
Lumiere d’artifice
carves facets, draws dimension,
etches the silvered plate.
On the peak, look over the valley
of teeming earthly life, birth and death.
In the swamp, love all.
Sometimes-things, they aren’t
drawn clearly enough. Sometimes-things aren’t
meant to stand out. Black sits on black,
then it moves around to white. Come lie back
down with me here, I’ll tell you about them.
They’re most times things, but sometimes I see them
and they feel much closer to something living.
It’s not that they speak or move, it’s something
in the way they lie so still but are still shaking
within. Are you shaking now too? No it’s not shaking,
it’s a hum. A string continues to play its song,
much later than, long after, we’ve stopped listening. Long
after we’ve stopped. Can they be, when I know they’re not?
I can’t see them seeing me or being, and they’re not
My hollow is sounding this way:
A hinged flap clangs,
tapping against its empty cylinder.
There are cinders in the tender
trap I laid yesterday
to catch a glimpse of a gleam.
The gleam leaped from a small crinkle
in the steel, and got free
before I could show it how much
I loved it.
Then, I closed my eyes.
When I close my eyes, I can see
flares of color.
Monday, it isn’t blue, it’s red,
a ruby splatter creeping
its stain of warmth to the very edge.
A simple pebble, he sits
not marked or moved
by any glitter or tint,
absorbing the dull being
that ever flows past him.
Not only time's
relative. There's space,
and the zigzag paths
over dried needles.
I've found great distance
in a single step;
the plod that connects
me to young flowers.
Lightness'll come crossing
mouthy oceans; tongues
to teach me close. Mine's
an old, restless soul.
Three words
Are you okay?
What is the expected answer?
What is the right answer ?
Three words
That make you think about your life
It should be easy right?
It's a Yes/No question!
So why aren't you answering?
Instead you're writing about the question.
Once again,
Are you okay?
First hypothesis.
There's beauty in pain.
How ?
Second hypothesis.
Well, thus beauty can only be totally seen when you heal.
Third hypothesis.
But I guess you can have an overview on the way.
During the weird journey of healing.
I'm obsessed with the last word.
The last word in a book
The last word in a song
The last word Ina sentence
A poem
A story
A joke
The last word that someone has spoken to me
My best friend was know
My secret love was you
My father was grass
My mother was freak
My brother was goodnight
My enemy was fell
And me?
Star.
the littlest things
are the stupidest things
the craziest things
the most beautiful things
Red flowers bloom
Like health and heart
Or burning flame
Or pooling blood
Blue flowers grow
Like an ocean of waves
Or a gentle stream
Or a cloudless day
Green leaves sway
To nature's song
Like a forest of trees
Or a grassy lawn
Orange flowers glow
Like a beautiful sunset
Or the core of a flame
When it's lit
We’re given paper, scissors, glue, as if
these tools can make or mend our little
hearts. Each February teaches us that red
means love, despite the world’s request
to stop, to see our anger like a film, to hear
an ambulance’s shrill and piercing wail.
Democritus believed the world composed
of atoms, tiny specks defining pleasure
and unpleasantness. The sweetness
of the honeycomb resides in atoms round
and smooth; the other atoms, sharp, a-
symmetrical, cause bitterness and pain.
When called to recreate that part of us
we’re taught to give away, we turn to
simple shapes: a triangle below a circle
split in half. The heart we see is smooth,
When the ones close to heart go away,
They actually become shine in the stars,
They blossom in the flowers,
They are in the cold breeze that blows,
Before the rain starts,
They are not away ,
They are actually in our broken parts,
And they make us fall in love with the scars.