One

Star bright

Lantern-glow

Carols drifting

Candy cane dancing

Evergreen branches sway

Joy gathers around tables

Mistletoe brought home from forest

Year-end turning, warmth clear through the frost

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outstaring a blank wall 

You stand before a wall.
It waits, blank as withheld breath.

What hovers over you?
Drafts unpinned,
stories unspoken,
videos sealed,
pages chasing horizons
that never arrive.

Perfection dithers—
a mask for delay.
What if you placed
one imperfect mark?
What if you let motion
carve its shape?

The wall gathers:
crooked sketches,
half-born concepts...

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Wynken, Blynken, and Nod (reprise)

They set forth again, the fishermen three,

their chair of seasoned steel, rolling free,

their wheels carrying stories gathered

from seas where frolic once travelled.

Gold in their hair, not from youth’s frame

but from the long sun’s patient flame,

they cast their nets not for silver schools

but for recollection’s wispy spool...

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The poem bares its teeth: a hyena,
laughter breaking in jagged bursts,
circling the margins,
menace felt in scuffling shadows.

Then it rises upright: a meerkat,
eyes darting across horizons,
paws quick in sudden scurry,
a hesitant vigil before burrowing.

Between circling and scurry,
menace and play entwine,
scarfing fragments into chorus
more than jotted lines on a page.

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the river’s ardent flame

the river bends into dark corners

Argand lamps gleam across its skin

each flame a question

each ripple an answer folded away

the bridge waits in shadow

stone pressed against stone

listening to every footfall

holding the weight of crossings

the Argand light steadies

not words but fragments

a laughter broken into dust...

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“What Fox Says”

Fox says: apprivoiser won’t be possessed

but a slow-weave of absence into thread

you tilt among the stars

and i trace the outline of your missing shape

knowing the outline itself still abides

there the sketch suspends

hollowed lines tremble while

i cradle the paper as though

the blank within it were the closest

i could come to you

tu ...

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“More Than Scribbles”

The pen does not speak—
it holds its silence in a chamber,
a reservoir where sentences
float unformed,
dark rivers stalled
before the mouth of paper.

Each droplet is a thought
waiting for gravity’s compunction,
a poem in liquid pause,
its capillary compression
held at the narrow throat of the nib.

The pipeline presses with pressure,
yet nothing escapes—
un...

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empty nest

Stairs lengthen
with the seasons,
names slip like
coins in torn cloth.

A calendar lies scraped,
its edges powdered with absence.

Looking‑glass memory fogs,
reflections scatter into hollow rooms.
Between heartbeats—
quiet nestles within its cage.




.

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Signals

You said call me —

a door left ajar,

a hand extended into the silence,

 trusting the echo to return.

I said I’ll call you —

a promise folded in my pocket,

a coin that may never be spent,

control disguised as care.

Between us hangs the dial tone,

a wire strung tight with longing,

where one waits in quiet hope,

and the other drifts i...

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iolite, wayfinder’s stone

Blue as twilight,

a shard of horizon in stone.

Vikings held it to the sun,

a lens against indifference.

The sea was a silence without measure,

clouds erased the line of travel.

Yet in the fracture of crystal,

direction flickered—

not myth, but light bent into clarity.

No consolations,

no gentle voice.

On...

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In the meadow of impossible mornings,

the daisies exhale in a trumpet’s blush,

petals fluttering like embarrassed fans as

the air fills with laughter disguised as wind.

Rosehip hiccups, clouds of lavender smoke,

their thorns rattling like spoons in a drawer.

Lilies bow low, releasing secret choruses,

a brass band hidden in their stems.

Children chase the gusts,

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Rain streaks the window of the late‑night tram, 

and I catch my reflection— 

half‑lit, half‑blurred, 

a passenger caught in between:

Cinema lights sputter, 

half the bulbs gone, 

yet the pavement glows enough 

to draw shadows forward, 

figures drifting past 

like fragments of a reel 

spliced mid‑story. 

The fairground stalls linger, 

shutters ratt...

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"A Slow Turning"

The stairs lengthen each season,
though the house remains the same.
Names slip from my tongue—
like coins through a frayed pocket,
clinking faintly in corridors I no longer patrol.

I misplace mornings,
folding them into afternoons
that arrive already weary.

The calendar stares back blank,
its squares scraped clean,
eraser dust gathering at the margins.

Onc...

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In the End

I carried the shape you traced,

a vessel cut to your measure,

but the grain ran otherwise—

knots where you wanted polish,

splinters where you asked for sheen.

I bent, yes,

but the bend was fracture,

and the fracture sang its own line.

You looked for a mirror,

I offered a window.

You asked for a key,

I was only a door left ajar.

...

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It comes with warmth, a friendly tone,

a note that seems to stand alone.

But read between the lines, beware—

not every praise is truly care.

“Beautifully done!” the words repeat,

yet nothing named, no detail sweet.

A hollow cheer, a practiced song,

a script that feels rehearsed, not strong.

The tale soon bends, the mask slips fast,

f...

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So stain—
as marks that remain longer than intent,
and hesitation pressed into the grain.

Second guess,
doubt’s small fracture widening,
as though the Voice were drowned,
as though we mistook the silence
for absence.

But sustain is not the clean note held—
it is the rough edge,
the falter carried forward,
the scar that steadies the hand.

And then—
awareness r...

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"Dusk"

The town exhales—
a soft geometry of roofs and fields
folding into shadow.
He sits where the light
still lingers,
jacket creased like memory,
hands easy on the stone.

The church steeple leans
into the horizon’s stillness,
a single bird
drawn to the vanishing point.

No declarations.
Just the red of his collar
holding warmth
as the sky turns
from blue...

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in the waning light

The streetlight flickers,  
its circle thinning and swelling  
like a tired breath.  

A man drags a cart of bottles—  
they strike and scatter 
against each other,  
a bright clatter 
that almost arranges itself,  

as if you could lean in  
and hear the fragments  
choose their own song.

.

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The knife rests,
its silver edge carrying
a small sun across the crust.

You wanted the impossible—
to butter your toast and eat it too,
to keep the sheen intact
while tasting its warmth.

Isn’t that the old wish,
to hold the thing and spend it,
to keep the flame unbroken
while leaning into its light?

So we practice the art of vanish...

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I promised

to keep quiet  

but the words keep rising—  

           worthless 

                    weak

a chorus I never chose.  

So I write them down,  

then strike them through,  

as if crossing out  

could silence the echo

               worthless   

                       weak

.

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"_underscore_"

the line does not end

it waits — a low bar,

a held breath _ not yet

beneath the sentence

the underscore drags its quiet spine,

pulling the eye forward,

asking the voice to stumble.

not in capitals,

but in undersong —

the half‑said,

the word leaning into tomorrow.

today’s poems fracture,

splinter on enjambment;

but th...

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“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
...

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"I Was Homeless Once"

I was homeless once—
not metaphor, but pavement,
the night’s breath stiff with diesel,
a borrowed coat that never quite closed.
The city’s lights were not for me,
they glittered for windows I could not enter,
for tables where bread was broken
without my name.

I learned the grammar of benches,
the syntax of doorways,
the long pause of hunger
that makes even sil...

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between the measure and its lingering chord  

a pause leans into itself—  

not absence, but a held breath  

threading the room with quiet weight.  

chairs remember their occupants,  

dust rehearses its slow descent,  

and the air waits,  

as if something might begin again.  

… and the night forgets its name  

the silence gathers in the rafters,  

an a...

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The world dims—
light falters, seas fall silent,
love cools to ash,
and memory frays into dust.

Yet in the hiatus,
a sudden blush of petals—
sakura, trembling in the air,
a brief rebellion of beauty
against the certainty of decay.

For a heartbeat,
the streets are rivers of pink snow,
  strangers pause,
    eyes lifted,
as if eternity had cracked open.

But th...

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Begin before you are ready.
The path does not wait.

Stones shift.
Dust rises.
Your breath keeps time.

Do not measure distance—
measure persistence.

The world will whisper: stay still,
safety is here.
But stillness is a cage
with invisible bars.

Step again.
Even faltering steps
teach the ground your name.

And when...

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Stand in your own light—
even when the lamps go out.

Carry your silence like a lantern,
not as a burden,
but as a map.

The world will tell you
to wait for rescue,
to lean on borrowed fire.
Smile, and keep walking.

Every step you take
is a small rebellion.
Every breath you claim
is proof you are enough.

Do not beg the t...

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uncored

a poem collapses language into feeling.
connection isn’t absent-it’s shattered.
grief lives in the space where meaning fails.

Love, once central, now spirals-
fragmented, erotic, falling inward.
It doesn’t speak. It disintegrates.

 

.

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I fold the silence into paper,
address it to your absence,
and let the ink wander
where my voice could not.

Every word is a bridge half‑
built across distance,
collapsing into the river
before you ever arrive.




.

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“Rusted Edges, Burning Gears"
 

The gears don't just turn;

they gnash—teeth of industry,

blood-stained from forgotten hands.

Whispers don’t drift;

they crack like breaking glass,

but no one listens.

Faces sink into hollow screens,

cogs spinning louder than their voices.

You scratch at the edges,

but the rust doesn’t heal—

it spreads, then con...

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The sundial misses the hour.
So, what?
Clocks lie too.

Shadows hesitate,
but hesitation
is still movement.

The woman tracing her coffee rim
isn’t lost —
she’s sketching a coastline
that might yet exist.

And the kite,
slack in the sky,
still holds colour.

Even fading,
it insists on being seen.

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The plaza holds its breath.

A wind gathers,

but only enough to lift

the corners of yesterday’s paper.

I walk the edge —

stone to shadow,

shadow to stone —

smiling the smile

I made a couple of hours ago,

still warm in its pocket.

Visitors pose for a photograph

they will put off

for another hour,

or another day.

The fountain repeats itself,

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At the pier’s end,

a lantern swayed in the wind,

its light holding back

the dark by inches.

The tide had gone out hours ago,

leaving the seabed bare —

a map of ridges and hollows

drawn by hands no one remembers. 
Somewhere in the shallows,

a fish turned once,

as if to read the lantern’s flicker

like a message meant for it alone.

When the wind drop...

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I am not the benevolent Oz, great or otherwise —
no levers behind velvet, no emerald gates to dazzle the credulous —
only the stubborn machinery of my own making,
a few cogs greased with irony,

    a crank that squeaks in the key of

                 don’t take this too seriously, 
                         until the hum you mistake for a hymn 
                    becomes the ...

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Between Shelves

The air here is thick with the weight of almosts.
Books lean toward one another,
spines whispering the titles they wish they’d been given.

On the floor, a stack of drafts waits without complaint.
Some are missing their middles,
                            others their endings,
but all of them know the sound of a reader’s breath
when they’ve found the sentence wor...

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an unread poem
is unwritten poetry —
ink still dreaming in the vein,
a slow current beneath the skin
where no light has yet entered.

Pages breathe in the dark,
their margins uncreased
by any gaze,
their fibres holding the faint salt
of the tree’s first rain.

They live in the quiet tide
before the pen descends,
in the pause
between heartbeat and word,
where silence ...

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I’ve walked the length of my sentence
long after the gates unlatched,
counting the gravel underfoot
as if each stone might still accuse.

The years have grown moss over my name,
but transgression carved into memory’s vestibule
means there is always one chair turned away,
its back carved with the shape of my absence.

I’ve mended the fence,
stitched the ...

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In the breath between rafters,
a figure tends the slow orchard of pages,
turning each leaf as though coaxing
a season from sleep.

Their hands move in the grammar of dust,
palming the soft weight of forgotten syllables,
listening for the faint pulse
in the paper’s marrow.

Spines lean toward them
like elders at a fire,
offering fragments of weather,
the taste of ...

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