I’m exhausted,
by these bullet train thoughts.
This relentless race track mind,
blurring everything in its path.

Questioning, examining, calculating
the world, in search of what?
Answers…
unreachable in their constant motion.

I’m tired of interrogating,
translating thoughts and emotion
into meaning, leaving my head dizzy
busy as blenders whirling blades.

Imagination gone wild,
compiled in never-ending reflections
of passenger trains locomotion,
carrying me to my grave.

My poems,
extensions of your own,
may not seem directly related,
in which they are shown.

Bone fragments recycled,
rearranged, and sold.
Inspired through life,
old words retold.

Rolled into one,
none are without tales,
of you and I, and
the birds and the whales.

Sails of the pen,
through ink at hand,
expands to blank sheets
and reheats used sand

Den ganzen Beitrag lesen…

If one were to ask me…

What are you doing right now?
Where are you from?
Where are you going?

I would have to answer…

I am in-between coming and going.

As we age,
do our bodies absorb
and accumulate the scents
from our lives?

When we are ripe,
grandmas and grandpas,
do we reek
of experience?

Expect nothing. And don’t even expect that.

In order to write,
sometimes,
we must forget
words.

That’s an itch,
and this a scratch.
Or are they the same,
perfectly matched?

Minds attached
to a switch,
“Off and On”
a distinctive glitch.

Pitch me a fork,
cork and spoon.
Utensils we use
under one moon.

Tune your piano
to the rain.
Gain your freedom
from slain brain.

Pooping ice cubes
in volcanic sands,
melts tornado mints
on etch-a-sketched lands

Bands of wired butterflies,
fly out ringing ears.
New year’s explosions,
diving toilet engineers.

Twisted intestines,
shaped into a poodle.
Eaten with chopsticks,
like sushi and noodle

Technicolor gardens,
of heaven and hell.
The spell of a poet,
spit from inks well.

Over the hills and through the trees,
I’ll catch you in a box.
I know you’re their moving the air,
you sneaky flying fox!

Ocean waves speak your name,
they move to your touch.
Much as you hook a kite,
I will sink you such.

There you are guiding the leaves,
whirling them round your thumb.
Dumb of me not to see,
you’ve mastered every crumb.

You have the skills to float the bees,
and tease my face and skin.
When I catch you in my box,
what will be of wind?