In the moments when promises bound us At the time, when my hand touched yours Yours to hold, to walk together, to cherish Strangers once, now one for next seven births Years have passed, oh is it years? Time has flown with wings widespread Today’s…

Break free, little angel, from earthly chains. Unbound, then, fly to the Far Away. Seek your rest upon the Holy Mountain. Embraced by tears which wash over you like aspergere. Plucked wildflower, you bloomed early. The stream on the mountain sustains you. It is your…

Darkness cover my soul with worst pain that your soul could. Go through. Their was know where to go the darkness had capture. My body.   My body scream for someone to stop the darkness their. Wasn’t  know one their to stop the flame of…

The ticking of mortality goes rushing by. Five minutes. Barely time to regret. Bring on the next moment. Bring it on. I have the reckless courage to exist. PRS 2.03  2016

In cinderblock silence . . . a sound night rich as a ripe wild grape, sweet strong as a soprano voice, this small, oblong being’s release, his body a quiver of song.

Childhood visits to our neighborhood library mandated pilfering of free bookmarks one for each book seemed logical never remembering that I returned only the books varietal bookmarks littered my bookshelves, then desk drawers a dedicated few made it into, stayed within the confines of a…

Oh L-o-v-e, what is it that you really expect of me? I never feel the way you want me to, and sometimes I really don’t want to. Because most of the time I really don’t want you. Deep down inside I feel I don’t need…

Poem no.2 : This time is ours We sit together and I hold your hand; Cauled in a silence That falls between us like a winter snow. Sometimes words elude you – Sometimes you speak but the meaning is not clear. Then wordless touch calls…

I am the soul of war a dance of angels cast down for the purchased promises of tomorrow I am the blood of the innocents and the vanquished and the victorious sanguine sacrifices for change I am the spirit of your disease a trinket in…

the old girl   the green ford pick-up owed him nothing in truck years it was far older than he tires worn, bed rusted, tailgate knocking he muttered complaints settling on the worn bench seat tuning in only a.m. radio hundreds of miles delivering his…