Tag Archives: #love

THE FEATHER REMEMBERS

I am carved from breath, not clay.
The wind shaped my name before the mouth could speak it.

Feathers — each one a forgotten thought of the sky,
and I, their memory walking.

The earth calls me daughter.
The stars call me home.
Between them, I linger —
a question with wings.

And when you dream of me,
you will wake lighter,
as though your bones remembered
how to lay in pools of brutal bruises.

:: 11.01.2025 ::


BEFORE THE WORLD KNEW ITS NAME

Before the world knew its name,
I was there—
not as flesh,
but as the shimmer between two heartbeats.

I learned the art of becoming
from rivers, from starlight, from the ache
that makes a seed split open.

Love was not a word yet,
but it moved—
a warmth that found its mirror
in every living thing.

Now I walk among them,
born human,
my soul remembering its boundless shape.

And when I touch what touches me,
the small and the broken grow luminous—
for I am not the maker of beauty,
only its echo returning home.

:: 11.01.2025 ::


THE FAITH DARKNESS KEEPS

I brushed the dust from my own regard—
yet still, no pulse replied.
The glass refused my borrowed face,
its silence deep and wide.

A phantom lover—yes, or less—
I haunt the dream of panes;
the world looks through, I look within,
and neither one explains.

So keep your mercy in your throat
until the storm has fled.
We’ll cast our burdens skyward then—
and ride the wind instead.

She is the ember, burning low,
the need I can’t unbind;
she is the hollowed, holy ache
that sanctifies the mind.

Emptiness begets its twin—
a clean, unhuman glow.
Purity, divinity—
each one forgets to know.

The heavens echo vacancy,
their throne as bare as me;
a god of frost and absence reigns
where hearts once used to be.

Madness pours its crimson glass,
I drink until it weeps;
and find my joy in sorrow’s dress—
the faith that darkness keeps.

Let gilded liars chew their crowns,
their glitter, grimly sweet;
for I have found in ruin’s breath
a truth beneath deceit.

:: 10.30.2025 ::


DIVINITY OF NATURE

The Universe politely
Revealed itself to Me
In syllables of Gravity
And shy — Infinity

It tilted like an Hourglass
Where Time forgot to Fall
And every Star a Question-mark
Unanswered — most of all

The Mathematic murmured
That Order must be True
Yet Chaos held her breath and smiled
As Numbers drifted through

The Philosopher at Twilight
Placed Meaning on the Shelf
And whispered softly “Why?”
as if The Echo were Himself

So now I walk between the Worlds
Where Wonder learns — to Wait
And find the smallest Particle
Still dreaming of its Fate.

:: 10.26.2025 ::


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 ::

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