Someone said to me recently
‘Do you feel alone?’
I remembered something
Rilke wrote about being alone,
yet not alone enough.
I told them that parts of my life
had sloped off into the night.
Never to be seen again.
And sometimes I feel
alone in the moonlight.
But only sometimes.
Thinking of the man who
left that March Day.
I still read Rilke, and Bukowski
and of course, Dickinson.
And around my lonely life
a woman, with a soul
who means to comfort.
How could I feel alone?

​
​Sometimes the corner
​gets darker and darker.
​And everything arrives
​without any recent news.
So, I imagine myself
left in an old street.
Waiting for you and
soaked through with love.
Where are you now
in this floating darkness?
How about we meet
in a new street?
And walk alone
on this new path of life.

​

What will you build
with your angst today?
For all those future palms,
unknowing.
The strongest pillar of success.
Or something just
buried, side-by-side?
Endless, and just
coming and going.

Where are you heading-
the swift rapids
or the tranquil river?
The spring nights
will come and go.
There is no hurry
to say farewell.
And amongst the fickle things.
You will still see the
same sun and moon.
Wherever you go.

​Sometimes it seems
all I do is search for love.
Retreating into the
lights of your memory.

The thing is you
brought this out of me.
Now, I wonder how I could
have life with anyone else?

I stood alone,
against the wind.
The morning cries
heavy on the streets
I searched for company
to fill the space.
Then, you came again
and I found the words.
The night of firefly
tight and rocking.
Everything in its own pleasure.

In the city,
it rained yesterday.
And the path disappeared.
The words I wrote,
unused – floated away.
A nameless puddle,
my only friend.
Eventually
the rain ended.
But I was still lost in
melancholy thoughts.
​

The clouds are tossed about.
A stormy wind blows strong.
By heavy showers of rain
I walk around the track.
My feet are blistered,
made from love.
How desolate the haters seem.
As we stand behind the
days of a love sublime

Rivers make up this city.
A provinces quiet composure.
I can consider how loudly
my thoughts come and go.
And how impatient some
people are with the setting sun.
There are days when my sadness
is transported back to me.
And days when I write and sing
of magpies flying in the sky.
Then, suddenly I hear your voice
rumbling through the streets.
And I remember, you are here too.
​

For pens, that’s why I write.
And by heart will fix itself.
But your mind is
locked in memories.
And your tints never change.
I will not stand by
and watch fireflies burning.
As the aged-old silence broods.
​