Nothing is happening.

In fact,
Everything is going right.

But I can’t sit still,
I can’t calm down.

My heart is pounding
out of my chest
as frustration wells up
into my throat,
until words come out
that I don’t mean.

I know I’m safe,
but my body
is preparing for war.

I search for refuge
in the silence
of my notebook.

I sip the hot tea,
I breathe
like they taught me.

I write the poem—
that doesn’t fix it.

You weaved a spell,
An intoxicating fragrance.
Lines got drawn, in your sell,
To disguise a hidden vagrance.

The sweetest gift your brought,
In the budding time of love.
Synchronicity learnt and taught,
In illusion of fitting like a glove.

Yet as Autumn appeared,
The mirror began to crack.
And mutuality felt so steered,
A one sided living stack.

Gentle rhythmic beats,
Turned to drums that bang.
All calm sent out the window,
Left to precariously hang.

Racing Nights 3.0...

The sound of a racing motor, came up the valley through the fog,
it sounded mean and angry, like a vicious, snarling dog.
Lights lit up the grey, sliced the cold and damp,
she hiked her skirt a bit higher, legs shapely in the lamps.

Beneath the cliffs where whispers flow,
A thousand springs in radiant glow.
Cascading threads of crystal light,
They weave a dance, a pure delight.

Emerald water, tranquil streams,
Reflect the sun in golden beams.
Each drop a tale, a timeless song,
Natures grace, fierce and strong.

Canyon walls, that stand so proud,
Guardians of this liquid shroud.
The echoes hum, a soft refrain,
Of life renewed by snows and rain.

I have been here many times
With you and without
But always remembering
Places mean little except to bridge
Thoughts of the past with those of the
Present
Your presence lingers
In the sights and sounds
Of what is today and what was
Yesterday

CASCADE

I finally found my way to that secret place
Where we once met, and soon fell in love
It was Autumn then, and again once more
In this sacred spot, here on the valley floor
Both there together like a well-fitting glove
Yet of you, sadly there is this day, no trace

When we look into the mirror, do we truly see,
Or is it just a mask we've crafted carefully?
A face composed of practiced lines,
A fleeting truth the glass defines.

The eyes reflect, but do not know,
The storms beneath, the undertow.
The smile we wear, a fragile art,
A veil to guard the broken heart.

The mirror shows what light can find,
But not the shadows we hide behind.
The fears, the dreams, the scars we hide,
The battle fought, the tears denied.

It is too depressing
To talk about death
I don't want to hear anything about
Death
It is too depressing
To talk about the war
It is too depressing to talk
About violence
It is too depressing
Too talk about the homeless
Sleeping in the street
During the Winter
Because the days are shorter
And it gets dark by 5:00 pm
It is too depressing
To talk about the left overs
That we throw in the garbage
That could have gone
To feed the homeless that are
Starving

She was saying goodbye
with her blue and walk-away eyes.

It should have been clear
she was already gone.

It took me a while to get there.
It was just that my timing was bad.

Beginnings with soft felt ripples
Comes the swelling of awakened
Emotions

Each tremor becoming a catalyst
Fed by silent smiles and
Unsolicited words

Ignited by thoughts of imagined
Happiness comes the

End