The world constantly sways me between poet and malcontent.
Pierced flight
thorns and stings
and those such things
just make stronger
our angel wings
P.S. Thank you to everyone who has written letting me know that Katya Elise Henry got a tattoo of this poem. Honestly, I didn’t know who she was and had to look it up. But that’s pretty cool, and a nice tattoo.
Alone in mid-night
Midnight — the luller
Midnight — the advisor
Midnight — the fabulist
Soiled
If organic is the natural way, shouldn’t organic produce just be called “produce” and make the pesticide-laden stuff take the burden of
Kindnesses
Small kindnesses make you a bigger person.
Inching along, leaving behind
the poet is a sensitive snail —
wandering along the path of life
leaving a glittering trail of words
Unhoard
Once you’ve whittled down to spiritual essentials, the physical decluttering comes naturally.
The chaos-harmony of life
I swing like a kid
and fall like an adult;
cry tears of gratitude
and pray in smiles;
hug and love, and later
hide under the covers—
wildly and humbly living
from dawn to the stars,
and ever back again
Word altar
An author can be just a writer, but a translator must always be a poet.
Mist
I’ve only yet to see the apparition of enlightenment, and it always slips past in my periphery.
Aye aye, skipper!
When most people see an adult skipping they assume it must be on the way either to or from the asylum.
Plexus
we feel poetry and art
in the sensitive veins
that run through soul and
carry not blood but spirit
№ Panic
Breathe in so much gratitude that there’s no room for fear.