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"Fragments Gathered"

“Gather up the fragments,
that nothing be lost”—
so even crumbs
become a silo of abundance.

The night keeps count
of every restless turning,
each tear stoppered
in an unseen flask,
as if sorrow itself
were vintage,
kept for the day of pouring.

What we labour for,
though hidden,
is never in vain—
the soil remembers
every hand that tills it,
every seed pressed down
into the dark.

And in the end,
all things are braided—
loss and gain,
silence and song—
woven toward a good
we glimpse only in part,
yet trust as whole.

.

Not the thunder,  

but the pause between  

teaches me to listen.  

A sparrow’s wing  

writes its brief decree  

across the dusk—  

and I am numbered.  

If silence is inscription,  

let it be carved  

on the marrow of my days:  

that nothing wasted  

is ever lost.  

"Nevertheless"

The world applauds its hollow heroes,
cardboard crowns dissolving in the rain,
while the orchestra saws its strings in half.
Nevertheless, I must prevent this outrage!

The poet, drunk on futility,
tattoos manifestos on the backs of moths,
each flutter a sermon destined for the flame.
Nevertheless, I shall emerge victorious!

History yawns, shelving us beside
pamphlets on the care of extinct animals.
Nevertheless, I demand satisfaction!

The crowd laughs not at the joke,
but at the desperate cough of relevance.
Nevertheless, I reiterate, I am not a chicken!

And when the curtain falls,
the stagehands sweep feathers into black bags,
while the spotlight flickers like a dying star.
Nevertheless, I’ll prove once and for all
that absurdity is the only crown worth wearing.

.

Silence of the Scroll

The scroll is already written
in blankness.
Every crease is a syllable withheld.

Do not search for ink—
the silence itself
is the script.

What you unroll
is not revelation
but the weight of what resists speech.

The scroll keeps its covenant
with the unsaid,
binding absence into form.

To read it
is to listen
to pauses between words.

.

Outside the skylight, morning breathes—  

not a riddle, not a veil,  

but a hand stretched open,  

steady as the oak that keeps its watch.  

The sky is not abyss but garment,  

woven blue, a shawl of ease;  

its quiet folds smooth out the creases  

that the day had pressed upon my brow.  

The trees do not whisper secrets,  

they speak plainly:  

we are here, we endure,  

and in our rootedness, you may rest.  

No sphinx, no silence heavy with dread—  

only the brush of night’s last sigh,  

and the promise that even in darkness  

companionship is near,  

and light will always return.  

Night’s Tender Kiss

your northern smile embraces—  

shining stars in the dimming sky  

sparkles burst and pierce me  

such brightness lightens my load  

another day closes, sun sleeps  

another night begins, stars keep  

a hope of us together one day  

across an ocean—now divides us  

beneath night-blooming jasmine’s scent  

steps hasten, screen door bangs  

my chin lifts, eyes peering deep  

this night is your day, my sweet  

slumber with fondest thoughts  

our souls’ yearning tendrils curl  

around a distant moonbeam’s glow.