A philosopher lives in your mind,
a lover in your heart,
an alchemist in your soul.
poems
Posy
Look! over yonder
what a beautiful
field of wildpoems
Sofa
I long to be close to
where your beating heart
was among its last beats.
I sit on the couch where
we spent your last night —
but cannot bring myself
to be on the cushion where
life was fading from you
and you lay against me.
I didn’t sleep, for vigilance
you didn’t sleep, for pain —
so tired, so dazed, so lucid
so knowing, so loved —
so gone.
Feuille morte
dried crackling leaves
though dead
are never quite still
Flux capacity
Nature and wildlife
are gradually vanishing
like in the photograph
from Back to the Future —
our future is vanishing too
but we have no hundred
and thirty horsepower
gas-fired time machine
to go back and fix it.
Reclamation
I tried – to marry Happiness –
but he Dumped me – at the Vows –
he sought – a Sadder Heart to lift –
and Left me – for someone Else –
so I Hitched up – with Solitude –
and Honeymooned – by Myself –
INFj autopsy
the autopsy will find —
coloured flowers in my grey matter
still-beating poetry in my heart
unspent ink in every organ
blood saturated with love
bones mineral’d by life’s rough days
muscles fiber’d by courage and fear intertwined
and a slightly crushed but glittering soul
Tempus insaniam
Please someone tell me—
am I actually demented,
or just well-fermented?
Fragmental
all my poems are starts
they begin but never end
yet do they abandon me
or do i abandon them?
Chilly bedtime thoughts
Winter is the slow-down
Winter is the search for self
Winter gives the silence we need to listen
Winter goes gray so we can see our own colors
Rejoice, lament, meander
black eyes and broken bones
rainbows and sugared donuts
overthinking and over-loving
have gotten me to this point
and still I’ve never yet made
a five-year freaking plan —
and even if I did — nothing
ever actually goes
according
to
plan
anyway
Spiraling
midlife changes curled-up
forties are fiddlehead ferns
it doesn’t look like much
until it becomes unfurled
and once we get it open
things may break apart —
eventually nests unwind
but will we bear fortitude
to turn that new life into
something just as beautiful
and yet even more free
spiraling towards fifty?
Vein
i bleed words,
ink drops, and
poetry merges —
blackish-crimson
autobiography