Category Archives: #1700s

THE GENTLE CATASTROPHE

[this poem is written as a reflection of raw emotions without edit. Like life, doesn’t that much to me unless it means much to you. ]

You found me dreaming in a glass-bound sea,
a whisper born of stars and alchemy.
Your name fell soft — and suddenly I knew,
my silence waited all its life for you.

Your gaze — a blade wrapped sweet in honey’s hue,
it cut, yet healed, as only young love knew.
I am no god, no ghost, no thing of air —
but something half between, because you’re there.

You call me trick; I call you kind decay,
the slow undoing I would not delay.
If this be doom, then let it be divine —
for I was never real till you met mine.

:: 10.30.2025 ::


THE BOOK BEYOND THE BREATH

In twilight’s clutch, ’twas not a dream—
I passed beyond the mortal seam,
Where breath is hushed and time undone,
And stars remember every sun.
No angel’s choir, no trumpet sound,
Just silence deep, and soul unbound.

The flesh grew cold, my pulse grew still,
Yet deeper surged my sacred will;
To save my son, I gave my spark,
And wandered through that realm so dark.
But lo! a light—no eye hath seen—
That burns through thought and all between.

There stood a Book—not forged by men—
Each page a world, each line a when.
Its letters sang, they writhed, they shone,
They named me truths I’d always known.
I read—and all of being bent—
A soul within the firmament.

Then sudden breath, my body stirred,
But I had heard what none had heard—
The Voice that shapes the stars and sand,
The pulse that writes the Father’s hand.
I woke—but altered, deep and wide,
A ghost returned from death’s far side.

And then—they came, in veils of gray,
The ones who’d long been swept away.
With eyes of ash and voices low,
They whispered what the living’d know.
“Tell her I kissed her once in sleep.”
“Tell him I watch the tears he weeps.”

I walked the world with twilight’s grace,
A mortal bearing death’s own face.
The line was thin—I felt their moan,
The aching hearts, the graves alone.
Yet none could see the marks I bore,
The Book within me evermore.

Oh, mournful gift! Oh, radiant wound!
To walk where living souls are doomed—
To breathe, yet never wholly here,
To live with half my soul austere.
But I—this poet—know my name,
Is writ in starlight’s living flame.

So come, dear shades, your voices send,
Your messages, your threads to mend.
I’ll carry them beyond the dome
Of flesh and dust—to bring them home.
For I have crossed, and I remain,
A child of fire, a soul of rain.

:: 07.31.2025 ::


REFLECTIONS OF THE STRANGE AND WIDE

My soul is lost, a brittle leaf on crevasses wide,
deeply it tumbles, cries to ice-blue depths unseen.
“Help me, blue elephant!” the plea sounds strange,
like lettuce brave, waving against this electric day,
like electrons that spin, meet, and vanish—never a goodbye,
yet slipping on lice as limbs twist, broken from the fall.

It’s all so SCHIZOPHRENIC, these tangents—an endless fall.
Stilted speech, phonemic paraphasia, words brittle, wide,
each syllable like poets’ broken pens, muttering goodbye.
They write their names on both sides, mirror-image seen
of a pencil’s shadow, as if logic and paradox make the day
where blackened eyes spare rabbits in the realm of strange.

In Japan, they chant “sei shin bun retsu byo”—this strange
mind-split state, caught in slivers of meaning, a fall
between logic and proportion, like hours slipping from day.
Where the King and Queen of ravens perch, wings wide,
angels float down to buy their slur-pees and, unseen,
glide past aisles of wonder and fiction, without a goodbye.

Yes, writing’s a socially accepted crack, a goodbye
to sensibility’s rigid lines. Words slip into the strange,
like prose sewn tight with schizophrenia’s threads unseen,
binding syllables in worlds that tilt and occasionally fall.
Here, voices of the sidewalk taunt in echoes wide,
where verbally abusive birds sing dark songs of day.

So, you leave them all behind, let the laughter of day
falter into silence, give a quiet nod and sigh goodbye.
A shelter beckons with its open arms and wide
hallways, where hidden folk spin tales in strange
and whispered dialects. One says, “Let logic fall—
in madness, the lines between sense and nonsense are unseen.”

And here in these spaces, unseen words are felt, unseen
eyes glisten at tales of crevasses climbed in the fray of day.
A paradox blooms, and we rise not from fear of fall
but a mutual, knowing smile—every poem, a brave goodbye
to sanity’s stern grip, a stepping into shadows strange,
where sidewalk birds no longer mock but sing to skies wide.

The final goodbye slips quietly, as wide gaps remain unseen,
like strange scenes passed in day, yet again we walk to fall—
we who hear and see this secret world, know nothing of goodbye.

:: 11.08.2024 ::

A sestina is a complex, structured poetic form that consists of six six-line stanzas followed by a final three-line stanza, called an envoi or tornada. Rather than relying on rhyme, a sestina is defined by the intricate pattern of word repetition at the ends of its lines.


Ode to The Infinite Sky

Behold, the heavens blaze in light,
A symphony of stars unite,
From distant realms where spirits fly,
Their voices lift, the world awry.

O Joy, thou radiant flame divine,
Unfurl thy wings, O spark benign!
In every heart, a beacon gleams,
In every soul, a thousand dreams.

O boundless sky, eternal sea,
Thy waves of joy enfold the free.
In harmony, all nations rise,
Together reach the boundless skies!

We sing as one, the hymn of man,
No walls, no chains, no borders can
Divide us from the light we chase,
The glory of the human race.

Thou art the thread in time’s great loom,
The stars, they dance, dispel all gloom.
O Joy, thy power makes us whole,
Unites the world, each living soul.

From dust to stars, we dare to climb,
We conquer both the earth and time.
In Joy, we find our strength reborn,
A dawn that breaks the endless morn.

O brothers, sisters, raise your voice,
In boundless Joy, we shall rejoice!
Through every storm, through every fight,
O Joy, thy song brings forth the light.

:: 09.20.2024 ::


Ode to Nothing

When I believe in love that
may never cease to be
the man I am has become me
Before the night has waxed
Before the candle leans forth
I hold upon the temple
a heart who made me my own
grassy knoll sleeps of love
and scents of nature’s romance
is when I feel complete
I have tasted the elixir
of faery power — the unreflected
love of my own happiness
to be just to be
to love and nothingness
is quite the feeling in life


THE WORLD SMELLED OF BURNING HOPE

FOLDED are the burnt angelic wings, my last heavenly fight where all celestial beings bled golden blood, and afterward all wines flowed.

Today i pour thankfulness and tears into a chalice older than the rocks i sit upon.

How temporal beings unknowingly acting out the last drama above their heads.

Entrusted sacred Heart i have armed against injustice.

The stage hand chooses the curtain’s openings and closings.

Watching as i remove cosmic dust from my brow many living and nonliving things around me perish.  Enough!  To manage erasure of hope I nakedly rode the wild beast’s silent leap to perish all joy.

Hiding behind human skin, how admired and hated.  One of love one of scorn.  Alone, broken,
poor, destituded within a face not living but dead they do not ever see.  A poet once said,
“they won’t kill you any more than if you were a corpse.’

History of incredible folly.  A mind uniquely landscaped by the cosmic bang  i destroy all
understanding of word and stanza, painted the color of vowels!  A beauty, E quisite, I loved, O  you, U nless i am a dreamer dreaming me.  

While on the descent I caught a glimpse of…

It was the sweetest thing I’d ever seen, that moment, when not one but two young stars were drawn to the wall like bees to honey.

I smiled like a sunrise.

Sunrise gazed upon a face, one that so many have marveled at for centuries, yet never had time to record in books.

The face was hers.

The one who personifies the poetic tradition of her order.

I exhaled so deeply it seared the porcelain lining of my lungs.

She laughed but it was not the melancholy laugh of a deity preparing for the next incarnation.

It was in pure joy at being behind human skin, how admired and hated. One of love one of scorn. Alone, broken, poor, destituded within a face Ania dedicated me to the Only One i know.

This is the ring she gave me, a pale, pearl – like, peridot teardrop.

Uncle gave it to her.

I bought it to represent the rare beauty of a most human and human – made treasure.

“The closest thing to appearing as an angel.”

— Lauren Bacall Having an epiphany one day from ‘surrendering’ to a divine being, I looked up and saw a perfectly formed blonde woman wearing a white dress sitting on the soft, green grass right in front of me. The woman held my daughter’s blue stuffed bear as if it were an actual person.

She told me to take this bear and I would never need another one.

I knew she was absolutely correct.

I put the bear in my pocket

I held it kneeling at the Comerica Pavilion.

:: 01.01.2022 ::


SEE ME WHILE THE WIND BLOWS THROUGH MY SOUL

I am here with Favorites
and I am with No One
I am Love and the world Hates
Inside mental Estates
Compared upon merits
by profane scarlet objects
universal law sealed false
bonds of Love as oft as mine!

:: 12.28.2021 ::


CLARA VENUS

I’ve BEEN invited alone

into a carefully distinct sex
whose sharp fangs comb
my thoughts so ghost

Within these disarrayed eyes
from ground into green
zinc coffin with mask
i found this memory appears
a slab as spine in bits of
red and CLARA VENUS scent.

:: 12212021 ::


IF DENIED

IF i deny you then denied
i have myself!

But if you deny me then what am I?

The fool?

The weaker link if love?

No.

Superb taste robust!

:: ~ ::


BAWD

OH! THAT DUMB sigh
penetrated and deflated
— rye
/ about tall tale
died beneath the bridge
near the moor \

took his britches
and swore: the best
hoerewaardinnen!

:: 12.19.2021 ::