Poetry: an attempt at communication
the said, unsaid

of words to worlds too big
for my tongue

failing at reeling in responses
unidirectional, mostly
messages in digital bottles

Not Quite a Mirror

Not quite a mirror
not quite a reflection of fingers
approaching, reaching
not quite a meeting of minds
on opposite sides
not quite a turn of events
from midday heat to storm
not quite
but more than not at all
not quite
touching the rippling surface
of not quite water, not quite self
encountering personal limbo

I’m full of ideas, half done, half burnt
the longing and the leaving
always playing on repeat
in old tracks and overgrown paths
rediscovery on the regular
writing and rewriting and abandoning;
is there anything really new,
asks the rain, returning from the sea
and the dew on the grass tells of
big cloud ships and the worms below
and I’m lost in recurring tides
bringing thoughts back to the coast
littering my shores with confusion
and the weight of sand in worn shoes


words warped
by the heat of the day
and the forging of sentences
hammer pounding, ringing
in exhausted ears
I give, I take
melting out from between
fingers busy taking apart
the seams of what covers the world
in noises
taking part

New Worlds

Take in the words
do the math, take the measure
of numbers, flowers, book, and tree
across the back of your hand;
seize the day
squeeze the blue from the sky
the ink from the shadows

exhale new worlds.

Leaving Wonderland

I lost my touch of magic
brushed off with my gaze skimming
over soft light on soft tall grass
summer gold
dusting fingers trailing
the empty air of forgotten fences
old bridges and tunnels, leaving
them to the brambles and gulls
for none but them
ever understood the patterns
of stories condensed
in one golden blink of an eye


Memories revisited again and again

now summer-bleached,
frayed from picking at the threads

dust settling
behind worn curtains drawn

a cassette tape rewound one time
too often

until each new visit
became a threat to
the now fragile skeleton of past
brittle, a museum almost empty
after opening hours
holding the bones of excavation sites
chipped away to
the threshold of reality
where more questions have to stay
unanswered by each passing day

and it’s a bittersweet good-bye
the bright monsters faded
to pale bedsheet ghosts
swaying in a distant breeze
taking with them fragments of myself