By the books

He shoved the stacked book aside;
hardbacks astute is poise and confidence.
These walls need to be seen.

The traces left
of old pictures, smiles, fields, birds,
and whatever living should be remembered.

The stacked books lifted yesterday to the roof.
He stared, finding wonder and longing simultaneously.
Sprinkling a grunt, he moved them some more.

These chairs called for his rest.
That which his patience deserved
as much as his back.

He grabbed a book and succumbed
While the quieting kettle
clicked for his attention.

 In our (own) image

We’ve made God in our (own) image.
Dressed in deconstructed jeans
and a dab

We’ve made God in our (own) image.
He is fancy as hell, classy as hell,
and as stronger as hell.

We’ve made god in our (own) image
With a gold chain on his neck,
belt, ankles and wrist.

We’ve made god our image


There were too many gutters between our tents
and that sent me to an early bed.

The rising sun painted the canyons yellow.
It struck, strangled and killed the gutters.

Now they – the rising sun and dead gutters –
have taken their place.

Beyond the edge

Beyond the edge
My eyes are nowhere.
My heart writes in its thoughts.
I find tears, fervently waiting,
beyond the impetuosity heels.
Right on the shores of exasperation.

Dread now clouds my evening.
I am only mortal.
Incapable of stretching my lasso
to bring the warm orange star a little closer.

My moon keeps its distance also.
It’s malicious preservation
of my loneliness.
Colluding with these running waters,
My warmth is absolved of me.
Till shiver is estranged.

I am camped on this waterfall
longer than I should

Her poem

She wrote a poem
about the earth, fishes
and the white furry alpaca.

Her poem, gifted in a bright red bow
of smile, blue tears and a heart
pleading for tomorrow.

These rising water
and smog flavoured air
choked out her beautiful poem.

Tomorrow may never taste
of her red lips or dream
of her blue tears.

A cold sunny day

It looks like sunrise
and it terrifies him.
He is not afraid of daylight.
au contraire! He loves it.
He loves the warmth. The light
finding rest on his skin. The sensation of hope
and the beauty it reveals to him. He loves
daylight and the life it grows in him

Yet, he is terrified.
For he sees nightfall beside the horizon.
And the cold of night beyond his fence.
That it recedes for a day does not mean its demise.
He fears, with a bone-rattling dread, its return.
And his tremble pre-empts it.

The sunrise,
his world of hope
is forever cast in his fear
of night.

It is a cold day.

Silent movie

Silent movie.
These tree is dancing so hard
I can see beneath her skirt.

The cleaners
are really proficient.
Swipes, faded into oblivion
as clarity clothes their handiwork.

I did not notice the glass window.

The dance continues;
a wave, a sway, a taunt
and a pose.

Am I safe here
or deprived of the wholeness
of this dance.

The smell of green
mixed with the tickle of
or hasty air.