Somewhere in Time

There was to be nothing     
which would exhume ghosts   
from entombed memories   
No visible letters or gifts     
So, I returned everything   
to their respective boxes     
as if saving them   
would keep me closer     
to your smudged fingerprint   
Maybe decades down the road   
they'll open naturally   
crack the spine of their prison     
roll out like insulation     
over the dry solitudes   
Or, maybe they'll forget     
decompose unnaturally     
laced with an arsenic of grief   
Maybe they'll be discovered     
by a young married couple   
who closed on the house     
after probate   
Or a teenage daughter     
rebelling against relocation   
while still believing in dreams   
finding the sealed boxes waiting   
in the corner of dusty artifacts   
overlooked, or purposely left 
by a bequeathed   
Maybe she'll be silently stunned   
like I was at 16, unwrapping   
by the small attic window   
a stack of WWII correspondence   
tied with a red silk ribbon --   
Real Love letters that began     
"My Dearest Darling...",   
just as ours had -     
maybe she'll believe   
just as I did   
That surely, surely   
this is a Love that survived   
Somewhere in Time     

 © February, 2017

For the Love of Words

Write it, damn you!     
What else are you good for?   
~ James Joyce     

For the Love of Words   
My dream     
is for writers here     
not to just have fun     
but to also love the Word     
LOVE Poetry!     
Love it as you love your belongings     
because it will outlast them     
Love it as you love your home     
because it will survive collapse     
Love it as you love your mate     
because it is infinite       
When all is said and done     
and you have become immaterial     
all that will remain is the poem     
for generations to come     
Dip your feather-tipped individuality     
in the inkwell of breath and register     
each moment, and the next       
experience by experience     
as a testament you lived     

March 2017 

Love is a Verb

I've been growing a tiny 
cutting since last autumn; 
She moved into a pot 
from a windowsill glass 
that was once a cup 
before tasting her first 
drops of summer rain. 

By late spring she'll be ready 
for moist soil; by summer 
she will have survived 
harsh winter elements; 
by early autumn she'll 
birth a new cutting. 

She will grow to a mighty 
flower from a little cup 
not because I'm a gardener 
or have a green thumb 

But because I Loved her. 


©  April, 2017

21st Century Emily Dickinson

What penance is to be paid           
for dropping the large brown eggs           
of your eyes,           
their content saturating           
the busted cartons.            
And all my childhood horses   
and all my imaginary playmates     
can't put them back together again.       
I can only try to explain.     
Blood is the life           
and I feel mine in these Sacred lands.           
Each spilled drop fertilizing           
a blade of grass.           
My Heart a Mother Elm           
embedded in these woods,           
My fingers rooted in past lives           
My breath warm with memories.           
These mountains bear my shadow           
and that of our Father's people.           
And perhaps somewhere in Time           
I'll belong here again.           
But how can I look at you and pretend           
when Poetry is pulling my Blood           
into the open flow           
of its own veins.           
I do not fear solitude           
but yearn instead           
for its peaceful existence           
from the world.           
You are strong and brave           
have kindled my being           
that I not freeze in the winter.           
And I could write here forever           
in this glade of wilderness     
watching you fish, smiling at me           
but were it not for Destiny           
drawing my name.           
I promised you an answer           
when I was ready;     
It never had to be said.      
But, the question you asked           
altered the existence between us           
and I've never been good           
at permanence anyway.         
The Truth is all I have to my name.             
Drink it from these cupped lips           
partake in this          
aching tenderness between us.       
Departures are never easy     
even when blessed.            
I have not traversed Time           
to surrender my own judgment           
to the ordinary Life.           
My Intuition is borne from Innocense           
and it follows the Poem           
into dark recesses of a Future           
I fail to understand, but accept           
as absolute.             
You have always been with me           
even now,           
in the taking of my leave           
Love travels with me.           
And, another makes her way through Time   
to lie at your side in age.           
I glance back once at you watching...           
but there will never be regret           
or loneliness in the company           
of Worded Verse;           
Only a 21st Century Emily Dickinson           
contentedly alone at her writing desk.           


© April 2017        


when we're in control,             
we feel like we can prevent           
a catastrophic event           
we feel invincible           
no music will be heard           
without our orchestration           
underground aqueducts          
will never contain sharks           
the sky will never rain shit           
clog our small engines           
our hot air balloon won't exhale           
against an albatross' beak           
fuck all that           
I'm dizzy from charting the course           
I'm spinning without a compass           
filling the grid of my own Vortex           
I can't breathe; anxiety           
is my middle name -           
but, I'm not going to grab           
that Island created by a history           
of my fossilized foot prints:           
I'm going to fall to my own death           
I'm going to see where my skull           
cracks and I'm staring           
into the eyes of a little mammal           
who burrowed its way to the top           
pretending not to see         
so it would go unnoticed             
its flaking eyelashes           
winking at my blind secret           
observe the concrete from above           
its stained geography outlining           
some foreign country           
papparazzi sniffing a story           
of scandelous nudity           
that one crow sitting atop           
the rotted tree trunk           
a black-robed Omen           
tapping against a termite           
I'm going to goddamn bleed           
until my arteries empty           
shrivel into a curled leaf           
crushed under foot           
spreading its veiny           
lips to suck Air empty          
of its own oxygen           
until Life's engorged breasts     
lactate, drip resurrection           
into Our dry roots           
bloom Poetry fertilized           
by Our own blood           

© May, 2017 

Capt'n of My Heart

My Dearest,       
The crippled shape       
of your words reached       
my atrium today, slightly       
squeezed before filling       
its chamber with content       
Metaphors of melancholy;       
a congregation of meaning   
lined at the stationary font     
of Holy-Watered Belief     
Such intricate calligraphy     
exposing delicate vulnerability     
so perplexingly genuine       
Repentance behooves me;     
patterns my own quill     
having etched various       
designs in sorrowful motif     
across personal existence     
We all, through experience     
sacrifice innocence       
upon an altar of misstep;     
Momentarily surrender       
balanced logic to mistakes       
we'd later regret     
These Life-altering Teachers       
of consequence puncture       
the landscape of History       
with the contrast of Dreams     
You beseech Forgiveness     
to ease the burning of Moments     
and summon Hope     
But I say yesterday is gone       
and what was never Lost       
needn't be found again       
What sin is so grave     
to warrant waving       
a Sun-Dusted wand of Grace       
before any Human presence       
I am neither Jury nor Judge       
over the blueprints of others       
except for those of myself       
On the contrary, I am You     
I am Her, Him and every One       
between who've thrown stones       
I have no power to bridge regret     
nor heal wounds except to move     
forward with Time's Love       
It's all I know     
The Absolution you seek       
waits Patiently within Yourself     
Whispers, "Come Home to Us"     
My Dearest       
Page 2      
You seem so good at leaving     
So adept at forming Goodbye     
from an alphabet Null and Void     
to my stationed vocabulary       
I always envisioned Love     
as the First Mate of my Heart     
weathering swells, repairing sails       
navigating obstacles     
You Jump I Jump     
No matter what       
Until our ocean found its shore;     
our bonfire its song     
our lips its rum       
Maybe I've been wrong       
All I've ever known of survival     
is being left behind       
to stay the course       
Abandoned at the Helm       
or Universally separated       
by unveiled dishonesty       
I don't know how to give up     
or why I still Believe in something       
that hasn't manifested itself     
in this long Life I've lived     
Perhaps I'm meant       
to pull anchor, turn starboard     
and sail straight into the Fire       
Who knows. . .maybe someone's       
on the other side       
having already been through       
Maybe it will be You     
perhaps that's where you've gone     
unable to bear watching Us burn       
And maybe You'll say       
with a smile on Your face;       
" What the Fuck     
took you so long? "       
My Dearest       
Page 3  
I do not profess knowledge     
of that which I know not;     
all I can offer is a Spirit       
that won't surrender       
to the lack of Faith       
nor promise       
what isn't mine to give       
That even Lost at sea     
with little or no provision     
there is happiness       
The Future is her own Mistress     
elusive to any grasp     
and constantly summons at will     
We are powerless to her pull     
yet the method of arrival       
is of our individual choice       
We'll stumble, our bones breaking     
persist, rejoice, succumb       
to the disease of showerless days     
and detoxifying stench of rot     
on our skin     
Beg for fresh water       
Maybe we'll feel ashamed       
try to cover our naked imperfections   
exposing weakness in the hull     
Shame can become a deterrent     
refusing to reach for a buoy       
in shark infested waters       
Opting instead for ravenous jaws       
to scatter its sinew and blood       
across the current as fish food       
It can be an excuse overthrowing   
a weary Vessel in weakness;   
a Mutiny against Love;       
an unholy insurrection       
becoming the new       
Capt'n of Your Heart:       
a cold, unfeeling hollow       
of Living Death       
without the fullness       
of tears and Joy     
Or, it can be squelched;     
led Northbound into the rocks     
a failed shipwreck of debris     
While You cleverly double-back     
South for the open horizon       
of possibility       
Like the True Pirate You are   
and Capt'n of My Heart       
All My Love     

© July, 2017

Live Again

I. “Climb The Path with Gladness”*     
The veil hoisted midway up the mountain     
nebulous images reflecting my voyage     
into the scenery beyond my window     
Bygone shapes presently existing within     
an interdimensional portal expanding     
to bridge the timelessness of energy     
Fossils of consciousness channeling     
their essence: migrational light-beings     
and hues of saffron-colored dryads     
II. “The Eastern Gate”**     
The entrance is lengthy but smooth     
beneath my tires, the clammy forest     
emptying a waterlogged containment     
The last trimester of the swollen lake     
gestates with rainwater amid warmer     
than expected temperatures     
The cabin is vacant to my presence     
visions of you approaching manifest     
sodden steps compressing grass     
III. Wen' de ya ho***     
For an instant I am disoriented     
stillness abducting my senses     
questions my geological bearing       
Have two weeks truly created     
such a difference in a knowing     
that recently seemed so certain     
The bolt on the door jars open     
vying uncertainty against time -     
reservation stalls with your entrance     
Your approach is sedate, wordless     
drawing hesitance from distance     
melding into my breath, you whisper     
“Welcome home, my Ghigau” –     
in the exhale we both accept     
the time-limit of the hour glass     
IV.  “Dlatot La'ahavah”****     
Materialistic surroundings vanished     
leaving only a dimensional presence     
satiated in a countenance of being     
In the tenderness of transference     
dissipating doubt to knowledge     
I could differentiate nothing     
Between the past or eternity     
On the contrary – all things     
beget a (w)ho(l)ly fervency     
Fathoms of amazing grace     
flooded a tribal will to wait –   
We t(w)oo shall live again     
© January, 2017

* Buddhist devotional song     
** Christian hymn     
*** Cherokee Morning Song “I am of the Great Spirit” (translation)     
**** Hebrew song “Doors of Love” (translation) 

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©2018 - 2019

by TamArtsy