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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“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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hello poetry

Beneath the rustling of an unwritten page,

a quiver begins—soft as rain on glass.

Words lean toward each other,

testing the air between syllables,

like strangers exchanging glances

before they dare to speak.

Here, the ink is not just ink—

it is breath, the slow unfurling of a thought

that has waited years for its own voice.

Every line a b...

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"random inaccess"



Letters describe a moment
where time stretches—
stairs growing longer
with each season,
yet the house doesn’t change.

Names slip—
spoken and lost,
like coins lost in a torn pocket—
clinking faintly in empty halls.

Mornings are misplaced,
slipped into tired afternoons.

The calendar lies blank,
scraped raw,
its edges powdered with erased plans.

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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 cellar,

greenglass vessels lean

          against one another,

  their shoulders dustpadded,

       throats sealed tight.

Some wait decades,

stoppered against the tremor of hands

that might one day twist them open.

Others burst early,

foam rushing into the air

as if silence itself were unbearable.

Life, too, is a rack of bottles—

some ...

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Boy with a Flute

Ankles in sand,
goats nose the salt air,
bells stumble against
the thin breath of reed.

A woman wheels past—
hair a sudden banner,
refusal swift as wind.
The goats turn too.

Desire rehearses itself:
first glance,
first quickening,
beauty always ahead.

Still he plays,
as if breath could bind
what wheels carry away.

Sea steady,
trail empty,
music l...

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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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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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"what I carry "

Some days the loss is heavy,
like stones in my chest.

Other days it’s light,
like sunlight through leaves.

Both are true. Both stay with me.
And somehow, so do I.
 

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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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Evening Benediction at the Tide

The tide returns in sculpted prayers

over broken shells,

etching covenant beneath gull-scarred skies.

I press my palm to driftwood—

a liturgy in grain, fibers carved by centuries

of salt and forgiveness.

Salt water heals old fractures in the stones,

and on their ancient skin I lay down my grief,

each wave a footnote of merc...

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There was a time
     when you used to confide in me
     shared the innermost stirring of your heart;
     when you used to feel safe in me,
     entrusted what others couldn't hear out loud.

There was a time
     when we were close enough,
     nourished a friendship pure and free;
     when nothing outside bothered,
     heard the fellowship of the soul.

There was a ti...

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Morning mist drapes each blossom  
like a bride reluctant to wake.  
Petals fall in silent confession—  
memory’s hush in every drift.  

Roots hold secrets of laughter and tears,  
a debt of seasons owed to shadows.  
Soon, steel will bite bark and bloom  
and these ghosts will scatter on the wind.  




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