Tag Archives: #writing

YES, WILLINGLY I BLEED (for another day of love)

When Love – beckons –
Follow – though the Way
Be steep – and thorned –
When His pinions close –
Yield –
Though the hidden Blade
In feathers – pierce –
When His Voice arrives –
Believe –
Though it splinter
Dreams –
As North Wind – strips
The garden bare –
Love – crowns –
And crucifies –
Climbs – to stroke
The sun-quivering Twig –
Then drops – to the Root –
And rends –
He binds you – like Sheaves –
Threshes – till bare –
Winnows husks –
Grinds – to purest white –
Kneads – supple –
Commits – to holy Flame –
That you rise – Bread –
For God’s own Table –
All – to unlock
The Heart’s deep crypt –
Till I – am but
A shard – of Life’s Heart –
But if dread craves
Only ease – delight –
Better veil – your bareness –
Quit the Floor of flail –
Enter the timeless plain
Where mirth is halved –
And weeping rationed –
Love gives – but itself –
Takes – but itself –
Owns nothing –
Will be owned by none –
Love – is enough – to Love –
Say not “God – in my breast” –
But “I – in the breast of God” –
Nor dream to steer Love’s tide –
Love – deeming you meet –
Steers – you –
Love seeks – only
Its own completion –
Yet if you must desire –
Let these – be yours –
To melt – a brook
Chanting to the dark –
To ache – from excess of tenderness –
To wound yourself – with knowing Love –
To bleed – glad – eager –
To rise at Dawn – heart aloft –
Bless – the day of loving –
To pause at Noon – drowned in bliss –
To turn home at dusk – laden with thanks –
To lie down – prayer for the Beloved
Thrumming the breast –
Praise – trembling the mouth.

:: 01.25.2026 ::


unBECOMING

i am un
(becoming) —not the
lady in pearls who
swallowed her mirror
whole,
but the grassblade
pushing through sidewalk
cracks,
anonymous,
unadorned,
a nobody! who are you?
are you nobody too?

then there’s a pair of us—
don’t tell!

they’d banish us, you know:
the somebodies, croaking
names in the bog of
june, public as frogs,
droning their i ams
till the air
thickens with self.

O to unbecome!
—to shed this husk
of shoulds and musts,
the corset of custom
laced tight by eyes
that never saw
the atom in me
as good as the atom
in you—
walt, you contain
enough, why don’t
you let it out then?
speech is the twin
of vision, unequal
to measure itself,
but i, i celebrate
not the self that’s built,
but the self that’s
unraveling,
thread by thread,
a kosmos of unravelings.

i cannot see my soul but know ’tis there
(a narrow fellow in the grass
occasionally rides—)
the body grows without—
afraid to own a body,
i put it from me—
like a woolen mitten
in summer, or the
wife who lays her
plaything unmentioned
in the corner of a drawer.

success is counted sweetest
by those who ne’er succeed—
so unbecoming is the sweetest
by those who ne’er were some
body at all.

you shall above all things
be glad and young
for if you’re young,
whatever life you wear
it will become you;
and if you are glad
whatever’s living
will yourself become.

but i? i am the dangerous
looseness of doom,
finding it unbecoming—
we can never be born
enough, you and i,
human beings for whom
birth is the mystery
of growing: which happens
only when we are faithful
to our unselves.

O the past and present wilt—
i have fill’d them,
emptied them,
and now i unbecome
the bard of personality,
pressing the pulse
of the life that has seldom
exhibited itself—
the great unbecoming
of man in himself.
i pass death with the dying
and birth with the new-wash’d babe,
not contain’d between
hat and boots,
but spilling out,
a transparent eyeball
seeing all,
nothing.

i carry your heart with me
(i carry it in my unbecoming)
for whatever we lose
(like a you or a me)
it’s always our self we find
in the sea—
the blond absence of any program
except last and always
and first to live
makes unimportant
what i and you believe.
love’s to giving as to keeping’s give;
as yes is to if,
unbecoming is to yes.

O i am large, i contain
multitudes—of nobodies,
of unravelings,
of grassblades and frogs
and the dangerous looseness
we wear like doom,
becoming.
un
(becoming) the endless
song of my
self—
un
done.

:: 01.22.2026 ::


FREEDOM

I hear the call rolling, rolling, the call of Egmont,
heavy as the tread of empires marching slow across the earth,
three grave beats to the measure, like the pulse of shackled nations,
Spanish heel grinding into Flemish soil, proclamations hanging dark and unanswerable,
yet under them the people stir, restless, multitudinous, whispering of plots, of hidden fire,
of men and women breathing in cellars, in fields, in harbors, refusing to be still.

Then comes the leap—O the sudden charge!
Downward rush like Egmont himself bounding forth, prophet, fighter,
no asking, no kneeling, only the body hurling into storm, into cannon-smoke,
torches darting flame on rain-slick streets,
the second surge rising, seizing the tyrant’s drum and beating it backward,
turning the march of chains into the march of heroes,
oppression’s own rhythm stolen, inverted, worn as a defiant banner!

I see the battle without name, the struggle twisting, clashing, fragmenting,
armies colliding on open plain, sweat and blood and iron taste in the mouth,
the old solemn dance returning heavier, darker, almost swallowing the light—
execution nearing, Klärchen’s sweet ghost dissolving into air,
Egmont in the dungeon, head erect, words forming like sparks on dry tinder.

Yet listen—O listen to the hush, the deep hush after cruelty’s boast!
Too quiet, too deep—then a stirring, like the first green shoot refusing the grave,
the tremor upward, the distant horns of coming dawn,
the final kindling, blazing, not mere endurance but transfiguration!
Martyrdom bursting into sun, fanfares of the spirit tearing darkness apart,
chains shattered—not by muscle alone but by the soul’s great refusal to bow,
final strokes ringing, ringing, freedom purchased in red, ringing clear forever.

I sing the soul of resistance in every sudden blow,
rhythm that will not lie down quiet,
the man facing the axe who makes the blade lightning,
Egmont living longest when the last shout dies—
in the great silence after, still vibrating through me, through you, through every breast that beats democratic and free.

O I am the one who contains multitudes—
the prisoner, the executioner, the torch-bearer, the widow weeping,
the dawn that will not be buried, the people rising as one vast body electric!
All tyrannies fall, all heroes rise in the same immortal pulse,
and in this uprising I hear America too, unborn then, yet already shouting in the blood,
I hear myself in Egmont, I hear you, reader, comrade, in the triumphant close—
we are not conquered, we are not silent,
we are the resurrection, the undaunted stride, the endless song!

:: 01.21.2028 ::


FEATHERS FROM A GOODWILL STORE

I’ve stripped away the gritty streets, the whiskey bottle, the fedora-shadowed heel,
and let the encounter dissolve into something tender, vulnerable, boundless.

The dame of fire becomes a quiet, opening miracle—soul no longer a broad name,
but the deepest secret blooming. The smoke and devouring darkness soften into petals,
rain, stars held apart by wonder.

The voice is lowercase-i, parentheses nesting like hearts within hearts, punctuation
scattered like raindrops or breaths, lines tumbling freely, joyfully broken yet whole.

No more hard-boiled surrender; instead, a glad, trembling yes to fragility that devours
only to make more alive; somewhere i have never walked(so gladly)beyond
any wet street or heel’s tired echo

your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

just a joe(i was)smoking life
down to the filter of alone
believing whiskey could steady the shake
until you cut through the ice-fog

a broad dame of fire? no
soul opens petal by petal
myself as Spring opens(touching skilfully,mysteriously)
her first rose

and in that instant i swore
i’d torch every shanty dive
just for the curve
of your smile—
horns wail low(serenading Melancholy)
but longing is broader than hips
a grin sharp enough
to kill weaker souls?

no

it uncloses me
easily
no longer do my heels whisper-walk alone
noir lights bleed?

they bloom
smoky kisses swallow?
they sing
dark fruit of secret love
devours

and i let it(i let it gladly)
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life
which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder
that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your soul(i carry it in
my soul)

:: 01.19.2026 ::I’ve stripped away the gritty streets, the whiskey bottle, the fedora-shadowed heel,
and let the encounter dissolve into something tender, vulnerable, boundless.

The dame of fire becomes a quiet, opening miracle—soul no longer a broad name,
but the deepest secret blooming. The smoke and devouring darkness soften into petals,
rain, stars held apart by wonder.

The voice is lowercase-i, parentheses nesting like hearts within hearts, punctuation
scattered like raindrops or breaths, lines tumbling freely, joyfully broken yet whole.

No more hard-boiled surrender; instead, a glad, trembling yes to fragility that devours
only to make more alive; somewhere i have never walked(so gladly)beyond
any wet street or heel’s tired echo

your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

just a joe(i was)smoking life
down to the filter of alone
believing whiskey could steady the shake
until you cut through the ice-fog

a broad dame of fire? no
soul opens petal by petal
myself as Spring opens(touching skilfully,mysteriously)
her first rose

and in that instant i swore
i’d torch every shanty dive
just for the curve
of your smile—
horns wail low(serenading Melancholy)
but longing is broader than hips
a grin sharp enough
to kill weaker souls?

no

it uncloses me
easily
no longer do my heels whisper-walk alone
noir lights bleed?

they bloom
smoky kisses swallow?
they sing
dark fruit of secret love
devours

and i let it(i let it gladly)
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life
which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder
that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your soul(i carry it in
my soul)

:: 01.19.2026 ::


THE HOWL

i bleach the sky
to bone — each night
wrong heavier than
sun can lift
two moons
howl
round
alone
they’re always
there
(aren’t they)
whatever i’ve
doneornotdone
till all is ghost —
& wrong heaves up
a blackboilingsea
the moons become
twoFangs
tearing night
apart
at last
& shriek
thou art
thou always
wert
with
me
then silence
mounts
on hoofs
of frost
heavens fold
like brokenwings
no Right
no Wrong
survives
only
the howl
that wears
my name
and
sings


I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS

He is the hour the streetlamp flickers once
and decides to stay lit anyway.

Born in 1963 — thin ice, louder radios —
he carries in his palms fourteen thousand small rescues.

Each poem a sparrow lifted from the road
before the next truck arrives.

Each canvas a heart that refused to clot.
Three black moons live in his house —
Chai, Notsu, Earl —

walking velvet paws across unfinished lines,
sleeping in the margins where mercy hides.

He peels old names from skin
like labels from jars of forgotten jam
and writes on the raw place: still sweet.

When the world shouts its own importance
he listens instead to the hush between breaths,
to snow falling on graves never dug,
to rubber boots that once held tiny heads
and still remember how.

He does not shout.
He simply continues —
a slow, stubborn blooming
in the cracked concrete of the century.
eprobles is not a monument.

He is the wind that moves the monument
just enough
to let light fall where it was never meant to fall.

Tonight, in the small room where the cats are dreaming,
he writes again —
because the world is still turning,
and someone has to witness
that it turns with tenderness.

:: 01.12.2026 ::


LOGOPHILLIA MINIMA

In the quiet cradle of a single syllable,
a world awakens—soft as breath on glass.
One word, small seed, cracks the silence open,
and suddenly the universe is speaking back.

We are lovers of the least of these:
the hush between two letters,
the spark that leaps from tongue to ear,
the tiny bridge a vowel builds across the dark.

Logophilia minima—

the art of falling hard
for the smallest units of meaning,
for the atom of sense that explodes into galaxies.

Consider “if”—
two letters, one breath,
holding every crossroads ever walked.
Or “yes,” a door flung wide
on hinges made of air.

See how “dot” becomes a period,
a full stop, a world’s end—
then flips to become a point of light,
the start of everything again.

We hoard these crumbs of language
like misers with bright coins:
“oh,” the circle of surprise;
“ah,” the slow exhale of understanding;
“mm,” the hum of satisfaction
when the world fits perfectly inside the mouth.
In the minimal, the infinite hides.

A child’s first “ma”
contains every lullaby ever sung.
A lover’s whispered “stay”
holds back the tide of night.
We bow to the power of less:
how “no” can build a wall
stronger than empires,
how “go” can launch a thousand ships
on nothing but intention.

Logophilia minima—

celebration of the spark,
the mote, the glint,
the almost-nothing that becomes
everything when spoken true.

May we never lose
this small, fierce love
for the least word,
the tiniest truth,
the quiet syllable
that carries the weight
of all the worlds
we have not yet named.

For you, for me, for everyone
who has ever paused
at the beauty of a single sound
and felt the whole sky
lean in to listen.

:: 01.04.2025 ::

Definition of this New Phrase I created: the literal interpretation of “logophilia minima” would be a “minimal” or “very small love of words,” or potentially an appreciation for only the briefest or fewest words.


THE ETERNAL FEED

The deepest truth we’ve ever known,
As far as souls are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near that endless feed —
Or better still, just don’t allow
The glowing algorithm in.

In almost every heart we’ve seen,
We’ve watched them lost in endless scroll,
They slump and swipe and fade away,
Eyes glazed until the spirit dulls.

(Last night in dreams I saw a thousand souls
Dissolve like pixels on the floor.)

They tap and swipe and swipe and tap
Until they’re hypnotized by it,
Until they’re drunk on hollow light,
That shocking, ghastly, viral junk.

Oh yes, we know it keeps them quiet,
No running wild or breaking free,
No questions asked or dreams pursued,
It leaves you space to breathe alone —
But have you ever paused to feel,
To wonder what this does to your beloved child?

IT ROTS THE SENSES IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES THE SPIRIT DULL AND BLIND
NO LONGER ABLE TO CREATE
A WORLD BEYOND THE CURATED FATE!
THE BRAIN TURNS SOFT AS ENDLESS DOOM!
THE POWERS OF WONDER RUST AND BLOOM
IN LIKES ALONE — THEY CANNOT THINK,
THEY ONLY SCROLL, THEY ONLY BLINK!

‘All right!’ you’ll cry. ‘All right!’ you’ll say,
‘But if we cut the feed away,
What then to spark their restless hearts?
Our darling ones — how to restart?’
We answer gently, asking you:
What kept the dreaming children true?
How did they roam their boundless days
Before this timeline stole their gaze?
Have you forgotten? Do you know?

We’ll whisper it both fierce and slow:
THEY… USED… TO… DREAM! They’d dream and dream,
AND DREAM and DREAM, and then redeem
More dreams again. Great heavens, see!
Half of their lives was wild and free!
They built whole worlds from sticks and string,
Drew maps of places never seen,
Sang stories underneath the trees,
Ran barefoot through the summer breeze,
Invented languages and laws,
Fought dragons with cardboard swords,
Turned blankets into sailing ships,
And oceans rose from fingertips.

They lay for hours in the grass
Watching clouds become the past,
Asked why the stars burn in the night,
And wondered what it feels to fly.

They read beneath the covers’ glow,
They whispered secrets only children know.
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Delete the apps and walk away,
And in their place restore the space
For silence, wonder, open grace.

Give back the boredom, give the quiet,
The empty hours that spark the riot
Of inner worlds no feed can buy —
Ignore the tears, the storms, the cries.

Fear nothing, for we promise this:
In days or weeks of empty bliss,
They’ll feel the hunger, seek the vast
Uncharted country of the past.

And once they start — oh watch, oh see!
The slowly waking ecstasy
That fills their hearts, their eyes, their soul.
They’ll wonder what that feed could hold
In that ridiculous machine,
That foul, addictive, endless screen!

And later, every child will turn
With deeper love than likes can earn,
For you who dared to set them free.

To dream eternally.

:: 12.31.2025 ::
(Inspired by: Roald Dahl)


A FEVERISH 21ST CENTURY DREAM OF DR. FRANKENSTEIN

After a few months I was engaged in preparing a coffin, which I thought sufficient to the purpose. I accordingly measured out the requisite quantity of sand and put it into a basin of warm water, which was put over the face of the body. After waiting some time, I tried again, but the body did not revive. Then I gave it up, saying, “Let it rest in peace, it will not revive.”

But when the time came for another trial, I took the body, and with great care mixed in the required quantity of the water, and applied it to the face. The eyes opened, the tongue moved, the whole being awoke. I was not surprised at this sudden awakening, but I did not expect to have to exert myself so much. I was prepared for some short revival, which might be followed by the same rest. But the effect was as if the body had been regenerated. The next trial was to let it rest for three hours, and after this I put it into the water, and applied it to the face. This time the soul came to life, and in three hours had recovered from its death-like slumber. I was now satisfied that the original body was to be replaced by one animated with life.

It was difficult to determine the right place for this purpose, as it required a considerable amount of money. I took my time about it, and was undecided about a very large house, which was then occupied by my father. He had a very long-winded son, who lived in a small, close, flat, close, and then finally to a close, which was then occupied by a small man, a cook, and a postman. They were always at home, and their mere existence irritated me, as I had to listen to them every moment of the day. The money I had saved, and the rest of my money, were now spent in purchasing the casket.

I was delighted to find a servant, an old woman, who had charge of my rooms, and I gave her a very small sum, as I thought she would like it.

She, on her part, seemed to be so happy at the news of my action, that she called the cook, and ordered him to bring all the articles which she thought would go into a coffin. I then took a few precautions. I sent for a certain boy, who lived in the neighbourhood, and who was employed as a gardener, and had charge of the garden in which my father’s house stood. I told him that I wished to use his services in making a coffin, and gave him the necessary instructions.

I had a large store of furniture, and I employed the boy to pack it all up, and make a casket. I did not know what the thing was to be made of, and I had made a large mistake in the first attempt, so I decided to go and see my father, who had a shop in his house, where he sold, amongst other things, ironmongery.

When I arrived, he said, “I have a coffin to make for you, but it is quite impossible to make a casket out of iron.”

“What is the matter with it?” I asked.

“The joints are too weak. You must have something more strong.”

“Then,” I said, “give me something more strong.”

“The best I can give you is some wood,” he said.

“Wood!” I exclaimed. “I have only one piece of wood in the whole house, and it is too thick.”

“It will do,” he said.

“But I have a great store of iron.”

“Yes, but you will have to get it in a different shape.”

“Then give me a casket.”

“No,” he said, “you must make your own.”

“Then,” I said, “I must make a casket.”

“You must not,” he said, “for it will be very difficult.”

“I must,” I said, “for my life is in it.”

“I cannot let you make it.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because,” he said, “it will take you a long time to make it.”

“I will,” I said, “and then you must give me the money to buy the wood.”

“No,” he said, “I cannot.”

“Then,” I said, “I will go to my father, and he will give me the money.”

“No,” he said, “for it will cost you more than you can afford.”

“But I must,” I said, “for my life is in it.”

:: 04.23.2021_rev12.27.2025 ::


RENOVATIO

In the cracked marrow of old winters,
a single green blade dares the frost—
not rebirth, not resurrection,
but renovatio:

the slow, deliberate rewriting of ruin.
I have seen cities burn their own names
and rise again wearing stranger faces.
I have watched a black cat
sit in the empty apartment of a dead man
and claim the silence as his own kingdom.

So too the heart,
that stubborn architect,
takes the rubble of its former cathedrals
and builds smaller, truer chapels
where mercy can fit through the door.

Phillip, you who turn rage into pigment,
who date your poems into tomorrows
we have not yet earned—
you know this craft.
You tear the canvas,
spill the blood-reds,
then stitch light back into the wound
until the painting breathes.
Renovatio is not gentle.

It is the knife that removes the rot.
It is the fire that remembers
it was once a hearth.
And when the last ash settles,
something moves beneath it—
a pulse, a purr, a leap
like Chai across the midnight floor.
Old world, die cleanly.

New world, begin imperfectly.
We have time enough
for the slow miracle
of becoming

:: 12.23.2025 ::