If thoughts
were carried on scented winds
And prayers
were caught by candle light,
...
When I’m gone, I will be
quiet as a mouse;
My scent upon the pillow still,
But I will have left the house.
...
Her warm teary breath fogs the mirror glass
as she tries to fix her face to pass
the coming frantic wave of hands.
...
What's expected of this thing called hope;
is it a medicine; is it just smoke?
Merely a screen - perhaps a misty haze,
to sweeten our journey around life's maze?
...
At birth,
a tag on the wrist
generates a list
of places one may roam.
...
I am left behind
In constant state of catching
Up flies another target
And I miss
...
In community lies strength of numbers.
to support the sick and the weak.
In community somebody hears me,
with louder voices to speak
...
An eight line verse I tried to write,
It kept me up near half the night.
Twas not so much the missing rhyme
More vexing was the metre's time.
...
The temple siren calls, deep within his walls,
stirring in his isolation, a need for expression and creation.
Reaching for notelets, grabbing at memorets and pigeon holes,
his hands slide and his memory glides,
...