The sky is fitted blue.
Keeping us on our feet.
On a frosty night,
face was like moon-
reflecting on ice.
Missing mother’s breast,
wishing time back.
Pale clouds and pale trees.
Another wound,
broadcast to the world.
Some are called
A Wandering Poet
As I walk around I like to record what I experience. Through poetry, ideas and thoughts I hope I can share some of these experiences with you.
A Wandering Poet 