when it alteration found

backburner results

Altered at the altar, found a heart wanting
Let into a marriage of illusory minds, not
Ever admitting impediment. Where love
Ever shifting, alterations accepted, bent,
Removed with its remover, plays pretend:
O yes! It never was a fixéd mark
That conjures tempests and quakes 
At its thought, north star to questers
Whose value betrays its measure.
This love fools time with pallid lips
And pinched cheeks that bleed freely
It alters swifter than eyelashes bat
And bears no malice real or imagined
Unto its error's end, cannot be proved
Writing ensues and love again, renewed.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Please note that this is not a dig on the great writer. Hope it finds fair shores to harbour and find safe haven. Your thoughts and feedback are always appreciated and welcome.

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social platform poetry

Prior work

people are our real legacy;
one day sure, entire poems
shall have been forgotten,
while remains a phrase or
a feeling drawn from wells
deeper than memory can
reach, or device can retrieve
much like thread-diving as
we scamper for posts buried
by traffic and flood posters…
follow, subscribe, or friend
buttons can only do so much
so we hang on to what we
have and hold dear, today
saving each precious moment
if bookmarked sentiments
are promises all will be well
we’ll boldly breathe again

Author's Notes/Comments: 

With all the internet surfers and all the data swirling around the worldwide web, even the empowered voices of everyman-person can be washed like sea scum on the shores of the shores of social media.

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pointing finger

Prior work

it’s inevitable, ultimately 
to lose every blame game

(each & every flamin’ galah
flaps & squawks itself silly)

for it is always ourselves 
that we blame in the end

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how I came to be

Prior work

it's when you looked my way  

and first took notice of me...
 that is how I came to be.
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Light Focus


The poet's unique and loving prism focuses light ....a sacred magician

disappearing the darkness.




to PJJ

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A Year Or So Ago


"It's been over a year. 

I realize, 

eyes playing about on dates

of the calender.


Suddenly thinking

back to a year before, 

days exactly 364.

So, less than a year, 


by hours. When the

lips that pressed were ours.

When our fingers intertwined, 

when we felt each others' bodies, 


souls, mind. 

So wrong, so forbidden, 

it felt right.

Written into passing,


the scripts and screenplay

of night-time stays, 

never staying until morning. 



door left unlocked, 

just in case.

Offered, often heard, 

only once utilized. 


She always said she would. 



She did, 

softly cooing my name, 

pulling me out of my slumber, 


and instantly hopping into my bed, 

my arms, pulling her close. 

My warm bare skin


juxtaposed to her cold clothing. 

We soon matched. 

There was no lack

of mutual attraction, 


no shortage of constant communication, 

trips, adventures, 

ridiculous confessions 

and straight-forward denial. 


I denied I did wrong, 

to myself. 

Who knows how she felt.

All I know 


is that she felt good, 

she felt like home, 

like I belonged. 

Longing for her scent, 


I still remember

how it drove me wild.


as she liked to point out.


It's a lie, 

there is nothing passed. 

Though, once she asked

if she was hurting me.


I, misunderstanding, 

replied, 'why, no, 

it's my other shoulder 

that's broken.'


She grinned, 

leaning into my arms, 

'no,' she said, 

'this. Us.'


It hurt, 

seeing her dog I grew to adore

slowly separate us on the couch 

a year or so ago. 


It hurts still

thinking of some details. 

Fond memories, 

so vivid, full of her laughter. 


Haunted by scorn, 

the scorn of several people, 

over all that transpired. 

You'd think a year


would wash it all away, 

but nothing is past-tense. 



the dreams. 

Thoughts I can't deny, 

lying that they're gone.

They aren't.  


I was told it was trouble,  

I was warned. 

But still I got in her car, 

she got in mine. 


She's a phone call away;

I don't have the heart

to dial, 

knowing damn well


I'd immediately answer if she called. 

Does she read my poetry? 

Does she think of me?

Love me like I love her still? 


I should have not turned my cheek.

I should have came to her rescue 

against canine off-leash. 

But I didn't. 


And I wish I had.

Instead, all I have

is a book with edits, 

another that's a gift


belonging to her, 

one of her favorites. 

We even shared a quote, 

'Never lend a book.'


An act of affection instead, 

one of several.

She never said the words, 

but she gave me many gifts. 


It started with a cold can.

That's how she loved me.

I wish I had realized it

a year or so ago."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem I was too scared to post for a long time. Funny how time heals. 

Aira - Part 2


City of marble and beryl

The curving river Nithra,

Where the poet Iranon

Had a father that once ruled as King!


Palaces with golden domes,

Gardens with flowing fountains;

In the midst of reflecting pools.


There stands a citadel,

View of the entire city.

And never so beautiful beholded,

As the view of the serene Sea.


Groves and fertile fields,

A brook called the Kra

Crosses the valley from the hills

In a series of waterfalls.


Forested with yath-trees,

Dreamed by the very poet

And they said it was only a dream...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Mythos poem.

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Poetry In The Attic


Dark corner

of a cobwebbed 


Box filled with pages,


Words written,
long years


Forgotten notebooks.
-A poet's

Yellowed paper
sits there-






Constructed thoughts
of an ancestor-






Wasted ink
wayward dreams.


Never bound in books,
or themes.


It was her hope
to see them in print.


Now they sit there,
in dust and lint.


A talent wasted.
Gone by
the wayside.


Packed away there,
soon after
she died.


Maybe fame.
would have come
her way.


But it never
to her dismay.


She never finished
the dream,
that she started.


Too many obstacles
sprung up.
Then she, departed.


Now it just 
lies there,
cold and enigmatic.


What remains
of her life...
Poetry in the attic.

Do Poets Dream In Verse?


Do we sleep in rhyme,

With words rehearsed?
In unconscious state,
Do poets dream, in verse?


Do we see the lines,
That always take form?
When we awake,
Are poems born?


Do we fear our nightmares?
Or are they only a guise?
For the stanzas we compose,
In our slumbering eyes?


Do we imagine scenes,
While lying prone in bed?
Ideas and stories,
That reside in our head?


Does ink flow through,
Our vessels like blood?
Do we write each day,
To contain the flood?


Do poets dream in verse?
Do our minds ever rest?
Or do we fear, that our thoughts
Will simply go, unexpressed?