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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.

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

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

it's when you looked my way  

 

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

disappearing the darkness.

 

 

 

to PJJ

"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. 

Visits, 

 

door left unlocked, 

just in case.

Offered, often heard, 

only once utilized. 

 

She always said she would. 

 

Eventually. 

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.

Past-tense, 

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. 

Hence, 

 

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."

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...