My drawing.
Walking by the river
Love Poems
Talking to the dying
My drawing.
Just by the hospital,
I met a man
who told me he talks to the dying.
Those sleepless souls
who have lost their shape.
“You feel deeply” he said.
“Just fragments” said I.
As I left, I thought
time and future have meaning.
And watched,
as the others lined-up
to talk with the man
….. trying to act casual.
Hard Times
My drawing this evening
I read some lines
“agony, always agony”
Some people think this
trying to face the sun
in the morning.
Others, when I ask them for help.
For some, just being dead
would be fair enough.
Words like ‘poetry’ and ‘rigor’
are very tiresome, in the wrong hands.
So, while the universe
tries to swallow us all….
I shut away nothing.
And listen for the birds singing.
Death wants more
Mt drawing.
I do not intend to stop for death.
To wait silently,
as a spider in a dank hole.
Not really knowing,
and at the end…. knowing.
No kneeling down,
filled with tears for me…..
Perhaps death is kind,
and will wait….. for a while.
But, I will dispute
my rendezvous with death
for as long as possible.
Or at least until spring returns,
with rustling shade.
And brings back those bright blue days.
And so, death
My Drawing.
Once a raging sea,
and ground churned-up
…..a wild breezing affair
Now, our dream wandering
over withered fields
….and so, death.
Dark silence
My Picture: No electricity in my apartment.. again. So I picked up a book of poems… and wrote a short poem 🙂
Sprung-forward darkness
watches me approach.
A page of Bukowski,
brightens and dims
the passing day.
Pushing inside,
the rains of spring
and summer moon.
Death knows nothing now.
Birth and death
My drawing.
So, we agreed
you would not die before me.
Already a death poem,
hidden in the melting snow.
And soon
the fireflies vanished.
There’s nothing more.
Waiting for me
hdrpl
rbsh
hdrpl
My pictures: Taken this evening. I discovered a new cafe on my evening walk…and wrote this poem.
Writing,
until there’s nothing left
of the light.
Outside gnats rise and fall,
on a spoke of faded sun.
Salt wind ripples,
to let death be.
Your hair drawn back,
a door to yesterday.
The whole dream through.
A hand to the sky
My Picture: The Mekong River, Vietnam.
An unseen bird sings,
a summer redshift.
Just enough to remind me
of how it used to be.
With daylight fading,
and sun in my bones.
I see a distant virga, and wake
beneath next seasons stars.
Clouds of pain
My picture.
A Wandering Poet 