Is poetry a mere form letter
just fill in the blanks
merely form and nothing better?
if it is, no thanks!

I'll leave perfection to professors
in their sterile lecture halls
let them be the art's possessors
if they have the balls

All poetry straight from the heart
has its own type of grace
it's time the perfectionists start
to wipe the smirks from their smug face

like black crows
hold onto an offense
the black rivers hold
our tarry
unconcern

it travels
all the way downstream
and ends
in our figs
and breakfast cereals

the clouds are in cahoots
and rain down
acid on flesh
and flower

nature has a violent
side
a loud
bullying caw
a sharp, swooping beak
multiplying brambles

its self defense
is merely
our transgression

Liars! All who boast
There’s no regrets.
You who see your do’s and deeds
And shitty love affairs
As in some perfect harmony;
Through all the wasted days,
In the commerce of survival
As part of raw humanity
Living as you live
From sorrow to sorrow
Like a prisoner of tomorrow.

after a week
of overcast weather
dark and brooding
like a pensive man
in thought

the blue sky
is a giddy revelation

with boisterous clouds
that no longer hold
melancholy
rain

it is God's optimistic
skywriting

white whispers
of better days

Secluded streets in lamplight lie
awash with cleansing rain
awaiting dawn's first sigh
life has begun again

Concentric circles on pavement form
left by heaven's tears
the solitude of this night
forever cast in years

I watch the drops trickle down the pane
and thoughts are of you once again
so long I've heard you voice
memories did not leave a choice

My face in hands
I cannot hide
the tears that are the rain

The man on the radio
is talking to me,
the orchestra
playing for my heart.
I didn't know
so many notes
fit in there:
88 keys trilling
for 90 measures,
the drums beating
72 beats per minute,
a chamber choir
for each chamber,
the 4 great veins
a string quartet,
the conductor
keeping pace
like the sinoatrial node.

If I've to remember
just two,
one of them
would be you

if fewer,
it would be
just you

if nothing,
then there isn't
anything
worth remembering

It's You
who makes Me
whole

When they call me delicate
don't underestimate me.
for i am not as delicate as a flower
i am as delicate as a bomb.

I lost 'me' where the foliage had to stream,
in worn out memories, and cold dreams,
on the cliffs and the gulfs of time
where willows whine with no rhyme.
Then I found 'me' - bashing
through the ember
of September,
A phoneix grew_
I found
YOU