Begin Again

Wake up,

Sip your coffee,

Thoughts on a dry, weary day,

Go to sleep,

Repeat.

 

We could be like puppets,

It’s easiest to live on strings,

Let go and let the maker play with you,

Wooden souls for a wooden life.

 

It’s easy and easy is tempting,

Stay home long enough and it consumes you,

Step out and the world overwhelms you,

Sips of coffee and tales of memories lived.

 

The more you speak the more you create

an image of the person you once were,

and in that heap of images,

you find your lost self.

 

Bring it back,

Flare your nostrils and frown your head,

Today is a day to begin again,

Today is the first day of forever.

 

The strings are off,

The maker moves on to the next,

The wood chips away as you

Run towards the light.

 

Wake up,

Sip your coffee,

Thoughts of a dry, weary day,

Go to sleep,

Repeat

Let’s Call it Magic

  

Today, We Love.

  

Consumed

When was the last time
You felt strong enough
To allow love to consume you?

When did you let her eyes
Take hold of your being,
Made you look up at the stars,
Making you a believer again?

When did you let her smile,
Those lips that made a symphony,
Make you question everything
You thought was in harmony?

And your senses grow stronger,
And you realise that the longer
You allow love to consume you,
The less the universe can hurt you..

When did you let her mind,
That which creates a kind
Of magic reality, change your perception
Of what you thought a misconception?

When did you let her body,
That which resembled the sea,
Make you tremble from within,
Create a fire only you could see?

And your senses grow stronger,
And you realize that the longer
You allow love to consume you,
The less the universe can hurt you..

When was the last time
You felt strong enough
To allow love to consume you?

Moments of Eternity

Masks

Here’s to Intoxication

On Poetry

What makes poetry work?
Is it the sound of words?
What euphony without discord
What beauty without opposites,
When a frozen sun melts into a crimson sky,
Or when the poet talks about
Her.
Describing endlessly,
Scenes that made moments mean,
Or moments tied together to make up a scene.

Is it the contemplating of your place in the world,
Or a place where the world is still together?
The beauty in fragments is only found
When fragments is all that is left.
Does the poet seek an answer,
Or does the poet know that there are none?
Just yourself among broken things,
Trying to find
Yourself.

Or maybe poetry is all about
Leaving one naked and exposed.
Words that strip your soul
Until you are empty, hollow,
Waiting for something new,
Till the next one leaves you emptier still.
What if poetry is all about destroying yourself
To create that one moment of pure art.
Is that not what it’s all about?

Writers in the Night

Fireflies

(Based on a short story I’m working on)

The sight of green and yellow in a frightless dance,
Like scattered bulbs among bushes.
The warmth of the glow, in a winter’s night,
Where one is lonely no more.

The smell of a thousand sunny days,
Or of some wonderful flower of unknown ways.
And at once the awareness of your existence,
Of weakness and strength seeping into your conscience.

What separates fantasy from real?
When the skin gleams under the moonlight,
The hair that burns among fireflies,
A moment of eternity captured in the mind.

They guide you through the path, they show you the way home,
With flashes and glimpses, bright and dim.
Bodies like drops of honey under the sun,
Or a city lit up at a distance.

Did you shudder at the sight?
Do you tremble at the touch?
Does the flame glow bright behind your eyes?
Have you seen your firefly?

What beauty in chaos, wonder in disharmony;
What art in flames, the hidden serenity.
It is what makes them different;
It is what makes her different.

A mystery of neon wilderness.