Writing, poetry and more writing.
Cast your hand above the flame
you’ll feel it fade
the warmth seeps away, your fingers cold
the cinders ebb, as the bonfire cools
the night is slow to melt, yet you will it to stay
where no one sees, it is permitted
the forest branches complete their journey
and you may mourn them too
you will remember, how the flame cuts right through
The cat walks past, cobwebs in her whiskers
clearing up the cardboard boxes
I thumb through picture books and socks
I listen close and hear laughter,
from a picture of my sister, who I take after
I fold it away, reach past a button-box,
I remember, every outfit, our stilted talks
so little was said, my sister’s sick bed
her hands as cold as mine
Fluttering bulb
the last dregs of tea
being poured
A book I wore out reading
the pitter-patter
in the sparrows throat
Lightning!
Breaking through night clouds
A paper fan,
Here the smell of things
Our pillows, the dregs of rain
All in a kettle.
On the sundial
I find no directions
Lotus pond
Turned golden by a fire
Hidden by the monastery
Yanked from the clothes line
The sound a sheet
Becoming thunder.
Lost at last
In old grown forests
And the sound of streams.
Like bare branches in the wind.
What a lovely morning it’ll be
With the sun shining.
What an evening to dread,
While we’re graduating,
Far from and free of
Home.
A year’s frenzy is over.
Green waves wash,
over resting feilds.
The dull cold speaks-
All poems have their seasons.
Wipe away your tears,
Reflect in your emptiness.
A serpent slithered besides me
Demanding paper with every step.
I had plenty I thought,
And gave a page now and then.
Blank paper; what is better
Than to spoil it? So he was fed.
Soon we reached my door
And what monster did I beget
Now slithering across my floor?
