5-7-5 (take three-hundred-and-forty-four : whisper)

her name on the breeze
writes itself cool on my lips
that I may speak it

The Stone

I looked into the blue stone
i’d taken from the tomb
seeking inspiration
from this obscure heirloom
held between my fingers
smooth edges hew’d by time
rolled out ancient imaginings
from the quarries of my mind
what stories could be captured
in such mundane a shell
if any soul was written there
the stone itself won’t tell
’tis up to you or me my friend
to interpret their history
for the stones that lay around us
hold their counsel silently.

5-7-5 (take three-hundred-and-forty-three : river)

she moves like water
running as a river clear
I long to be rain

Make A Wish

humid humans hot as hell
soak their feet in wishing wells
that’s why wishes sometimes smell
of bitter disappointment
but when their toes all pass the test
of podiatric cleanliness
the fountain fairies do their best
and their wishes take precedent

We are not angels

we are not angels
rather simply mannequins
suspended on wires of conceit
our wings but tape and paper
destined to dissolve and wither
the moment we’re exposed
for that which we cannot hide.

5-7-5 (take three-hundred-and-forty-two : tattoo)

the ink on her skin
inspires my finger’s traces
and it writes poems

Nonsense Rhyme Thyme

upon the day
that I turned grey
the sun was shining bright
so bright in fact
das über Nacht
it bleached my noggin white

5-7-5 (take three hundred-and-forty-one : catch the wind)

hoist more flags aloft
there are thunder clouds in view
we must mark the winds

Lines in the lanes

through avenues of lindens green
verdant sunlit temple scenes
scattered shadows, dappled light
twixt bright midday and black midnite
we two travellers northward bound
alone up country where we found
the way we sought away from death
and melodies that in faint breaths
we sang together chasing notes
that flew above in feathered throats
ballads pure which knew no woe
and signalled on where we should go
that our quest for summer’s rest
a million dawns, ever west.

Ten Thousand Suns

in the morning waking east
from shining golden beds
the sunflowers precede the dawn
and raise their weary heads
to heaven’s glory praising day
in blinding swathes they run
such beauty has made madness
fly too close to the sun.