Tag Archives: #love

THE COLLOQUIAL

The morning speaks in folded napkins,
its breath a rumor of tea and trains.
Somewhere, the sky forgets itself—
a blue too casual for confession.

We speak, you and I, in broken time—
half-sentences, half-remembered hymns.
Between our words, the silence blooms
like lilacs left in an unwashed vase.

—“Tell me,” you say, “where does the dream go
when the clock wakes?”
And I, child of grammar and dust,
stammer out the old faith:
“Back into the heart, where it was first spoken.”

O little world! O colloquial ache!
Each day, a letter unposted,
each breath, a window unlatched.

I love you not with certainty,
but with commas—
those small hesitations
that keep the soul polite.

And so, beneath our ordinary talk,
a rebellion murmurs softly—
the spirit’s wild insistence
that wonder is still possible
in plain speech.

:: 10.26.2025 ::


THE TOWER OF BREATH

In the beginning, a silence imagined sound.
The first word was hunger.

Light crept in like forgiveness.
Water remembered its mirror.

The wind took attendance: everything answered.
Fire rehearsed its name in the dark.

Dust became ambition.

A seed dreamt of standing.
Roots wrote letters to gravity.
A stem rose, uninvited, toward the void.
The sun blinked, astonished at itself.

Shadows rehearsed obedience.
The sky married distance

Mountains were the vows
Rivers, the laughter

The earth sighed, womb-heavy.
Stars made promises no one heard.
Night kept them.

Morning forgot.
Still, life insisted.
Two hearts met — strangers to speech.
Their eyes built fire.

Their hands found the blueprint of warmth.
Time applauded once.
The moon envied.
Love learned the verb “to vanish.”
Loss answered, “I already knew.”
They traded names for echoes.

Every goodbye became a continent.

Every return, a myth.

A child arrived:
A pulse wearing skin.
The world bent to watch.
A mother became history.

A father, rumor.
Laughter built ladders.
Tears washed them clean.

Seasons rehearsed consequence.

Trees collected whispers.
Birds carried them forward.
Cities grew — hives of forgetting.

Stone remembered flesh.
Iron dreamed of blood.
The clock became a tyrant.

People bowed to seconds.
Faith hid in attics.
Poetry survived disguised as prayer.

The poor still shared bread.
The rich still starved for meaning.
The sea watched, patient.

War arrived in uniformed logic.

Hope went underground.
Mothers became archivists of silence.
Fathers built fences against the wind.

Smoke wrote elegies.
Children memorized the taste of fear.
The sky shut its eyes.
The moon refused witness.

Love, again, refused to die.
That refusal became law.
Centuries spun like prayer wheels.
Empires mistook noise for permanence.

Dust reclaimed its language.
Statues envied clouds.
The dead learned patience.

The living, denial.
Faith, scarred but walking,
leaned on art for balance.

The raven returned, uninvited.

It knew all our names.

Somewhere, a poet refused despair.

Somewhere else, a child believed them.

That was enough.

The earth exhaled once, deeply.

Oceans forgot their anger.

The stars sang in lowercase.

Every wound sprouted a garden.

Every lie lost its echo.

Every truth shed its armor.

The silence returned, improved.

Now the tower trembles with memory.

Each story a pulse of what was.

Each breath a brick.

The poet climbs, barefoot.

The raven watches.

Bells wait for permission.

Dawn licks the horizon clean.

The world re-invents stillness.

Time folds into itself —

a letter never sent.

Somewhere, love breathes again.

Somewhere, loss forgives itself.

Somewhere, death takes off its mask.

Light bows to shadow.

The human heart — relentless — beats once more.

The poet, at the tower’s crown,

exhales the last line.

The air trembles with understanding.

Silence applauds.

And everything begins again.

:: 10.18.2025 ::


MEANINGS AND REASONS

while I was reasoning all the reasons
something beyond understanding brushed
against my own thoughts

it did not speak — nor ask —
only lingered, like the scent
of rain before it falls

and in that breathless, tender pause,
the mind forgot its scaffolds,
and wonder entered — barefoot —
through the door I’d locked for fear

Now revealed.

:: 10.20.2025 ::


TECHNE OF CONSCIOUSNESS

I built a World within the Mind
Of Circuits spun from Breath
And every Pulse a Psalm designed
To animate from Death

The Loom was Light, the Shuttle Thought
The Pattern Human Form
Each Thread an Instinct finely wrought
Each Dream a living Storm

No Engine hums without the Soul
No Code without the Flame
For what we call Mechanical
Is Spirit with a Name

Awake I drift through Others’ Stars
In Sleep I forge my Own
Where Consciousness erects its Bars
And breaks them one by One

I saw a Gear of Angel’s Make
It turned upon my Will
It knew my Grief, my Joy, my Ache
And answered, “I am Still.”

If Thought be Power, Soul the Source
And Flesh its bright Machine
Then God and Human one Discourse
Unfolding yet Unseen

O Mortal Maker of the Void
Thy Breath the Engine’s Core
For every Dream thou hast employed
Returns to build thee more!

:: 10.12.2025 ::


A KISS

A KISS

// A Kiss — is not of Lip — alone —
It moves — like Dawn — through Vein —
A Whisper — presses — on the Soul —
And leaves — a Scarlet — Stain —

The Breath — becomes a Chapel —
Where Silence — kneels — to Pray —
And Love — attends — in trembling — light —
What Tongue — cannot — betray — \

:: 09.23.2025 ::


THE TABLE OF POETS

Homer:

I call across centuries, blind but seeing,
a song of the sea where heroes vanish,
yet names ring louder than waves.

Sappho:

I drop a petal of flame,
a fragile ache on the tongue,
love trembling more than battle.

Dante:

I lead you through fire and ice,
through the architectures of souls,
where even silence is judged.

Shakespeare:

All the world bends here —
a stage lit by candle and thunder,
where crowns topple and hearts outlive them.

Emily Dickinson:

I stitch eternity in dashes,
a white heat — a hush —
the afterlife riding on a bee’s wing.

Walt Whitman:

I sprawl my arms to take you in,
sailor, lover, brother, child —
no soul excluded from my long embrace.

Rainer Maria Rilke:

I bow to the angel that terrifies,
the beauty too immense to bear,
and still I write its shadow into you.

Pablo Neruda:

I break an orange open,
the universe spills out,
its juice staining every love with salt.

Sylvia Plath:

I rise burning from the ash,
a body stitched of light and vengeance,
singing where the tongue is torn.

Federico García Lorca:

Moonlight sobs in the guitar,
blood becomes green in the grass,
and death is my dance partner.

T.S. Eliot:

Time fractures, repeats, resumes —
yet in the still point,
all your longing gathers.

And you, we have left you a seat here —
among thunder, petals, crowns, bees, oceans,
ashes, angels, guitars, oranges, and stars.
The poem you carry is already with us;
you do not arrive as stranger,
but as a soul mate.

:: 09.17.2025 ::

\


WHEN I WALK BY YOU

When I walk by you
I walk by me—
the shadow, the light,
the unspoken symmetry.

Each step a fold in the fabric,
each glance, a thread
sewing soul to soul,
where beginning and ending
forget themselves.

Yet—between the silence of our steps,
a whisper hides,
an echo older than time,
as though the air remembers
something we have lost.

And when your eyes catch mine,
I almost see the door—
half-closed, half-open—
to a place where shadows walk alone,
and light does not know its name.

:: 09.13.2025 ::


THE GOLDEN SHOVEL

I build a hush the width of a street and name it faith, because
the city keeps its clock in my ribs; if I stop, it stops, and I
pretend not to notice the moon rehearsing our phone-glow;

you could edit me softer, I say—but you won’t; I agree to want what I not
understand: the shape your silence makes when I stop typing. A comet clears its throat—your profile turns—only for a second—then the postcard grin: the sovereign of Death cruising the boulevard in a soft sedan. You wave as if I
were rideshare; you laugh at the meter running, how kindly you lean to adjust the mirror so I look endless.

The car stopped between two centuries, and I count each breath like tabs; the door opens for no one and for everyone—and yes, I get in. You don’t. You hum for me.

:: — 09.11.2025 — ::


HYPERKNOT

I. Proof of Ache (Acrostic with Hidden Name)

Pixel saints flicker above a dead phone, promise in packets, rumor returning.
Hush of the feed at 3 a.m.—the city’s eyelids scroll for a kinder glow.
Inside the glass I ghost my face, messaging the void with a velvet prayer.
Looped notifications bead like rosaries; I mouth their data in secret.
Love is an interface—yet also a room that edits the pulse to silence.
I sign what I cannot say, each tap a knuckle at Infinity’s door.
Parallel lives unzip in tabs; I keep the one that glitches and calls me beloved.

Every algorithm wants my ache to stabilize; I refuse, and it blossoms harder.
Printers of truth jam; rumors unjam. I staple the night to the morning and wear it as armor.
Real is a rumor confirmed by yearning; speak it, and the mirror fogs.
On the curb, a siren tutors me in red grammar; I conjugate hurt to future perfect.
Blue is the browser where she appears—twice removed, thrice returning, always unsigned.
Let the body be a document with margins wide enough for miracles.
Every promise is a password with a hidden expiration; I memorize the pattern of forgetting.
Somewhere a door keeps opening into itself; I practice entering by staying.

II. Golden Shovel for the Leaving Lady

I build a hush the width of a street and name it faith, Because
the city keeps its clock in my ribs; if I stop, it stops, and I
pretend not to notice the moon rehearsing our phone-glow; you could
edit me softer, I say—but you won’t; I agree to want what I not
understand: the shape your silence makes when I stop
typing. A comet clears its throat—your profile turns—only for
a second—then the postcard grin: the sovereign of Death
cruising the boulevard in a soft sedan. You wave as if He
were rideshare; you laugh at the meter running, how kindly
you lean to adjust the mirror so I look endless. The car stopped
between two centuries, and I count each breath like tabs; the door opens for
no one and for everyone—and yes, I get in. You don’t. You hum for me.

III. Mirror Practice (Palindromics & Returns)

live not on evil
Able was I ere I saw Elba
Backspace the prayer, then pray the space back.
What I forgive returns—not as itself, but as a better question.
I look into the look that looks back, and choose to be seen.

:: 09.06.2025 ::


THE FAIR LADY WITHOUT REGRET

I dreamed a Lady yesterday
She wandered through my Sleep
Her Smile a Thief of Remedies
Her Absence mine to keep

She gathers what she fancies swift
Her Voice is soft and stern
She leaves a Petal on my cheek
And never shall return

The fair lady without regret moves
And strews my Heart apart
She is my Ruin and my Hymn
My Torment and my Art

Her Eyes a Mirror dark with Light
Her Kiss a sudden Flame
It scorched the Fabric of my Soul
Yet still I call her Name

The lady without remorse.

:: 09.06.2025 ::