Nobody else writes poems like I do. The fixed-form poet's art is old and dry. It limits creativity? Not true. But yes, perhaps its day is long gone by. Oh wait--there are yet writers springing free On heels of metered verse and rhyming ends. Alright: nobody writes in…
I know not what I say until it's there Emblazoned and incarnate, soul as ink, As heady as a garden. How I think In pen, perhaps aloud, and words will bear Those thoughts of which I suffer unaware. They weigh upon a heart that's apt to…
I'm not supposed to crumble like a child Dissolved in foolish tears or aching breast Or lay me down and weep for trust defiled Or to my justice cling as though obsessed. I'm not allowed to mourn my heart's distress. I am instead supposed…
Oh God, how did the sun turn into blood? How did the lunar surface start to crack? When all I did was lay my head to rest As nightfall, soft, cascading in a flood Bespoke my eyelids, conquered, muscles slack Embraced in heavy slumber on its breast. The night breeze…
The love of wisdom is no love per se. It acts like dusty, passionless old tomes And gives no warmth of moonlit nights to they Who bade fair wisdom call their hearts her home. For rather, philosophe, you dwell on ink And put to death vitality and comb The nits…