Poetry

When the night falls , stars light up My sprite reminds me of you. The way you smile at me which shows your feelings towards

An owl swivels in her carriage of primordial haunts. In her padlocked church of trees. She knocks against night-forest scars, blithely written in frost and

I awoke this morning, and as I was sipping my coffee, the thought of where I was in life brought me to thinking of what

This dimly-lit café, there’s a voice then two, then three speaking like a broken triangle with so much impatience.   Winter, dense and black, crams

I leapt behind the horses of my mind’s imagined sleigh As snow had fallen overnight to softly greet the day I grabbed the reins and

Dead poets’ poems, seen within the admiring eyes of the living. The power of sadness penned, employing language, graceful liquidity.  Poets who wept their anguish

I read somewhere about this French artist making porcelain weapons   They symbolise women, delicate, yet dangerous, or at least that’s what I remember  

To the universe who places the perfect kindred spirits in my path. Thank you for your protection, the wonderful souls, and all my privileges. To

It was the guy coming the other way this time that looked down toward the ground… then slowly raised his head and met my eyes.

I sketched your face in the midst of a bleached sky; touching the cool wet sands barefoot and loaded tonight. A great inhale lights the

I love the way you smile the way you squint your eyes when you laugh   I love the way you dance when no one’s

The flame hovered silently, above its sooty wick Throwing jagged shadows on the walls of mortared brick And as my pen leaves marks of ink

In Memory of Victims of War Here : parents go to bed with no hope Of seeing their children in the morning Here, everywhere you