And it struck me how contrived -
from the idling of meaning in words
to the dust-speckled sun -
the world has become.
There are too many things;
there must be just one.
Why?
There are too many things;
On the bus
there is a poem on this bus - something about the
collective sway of bodies as it hits the turn
and the studded whir of the motor's churn
… Read MoreWanderers
We are wanderers in a world where
wonder lies waste, splayed thin across
digital screens and cheap paper like a
slight dab of butter across stal… Read MoreQuietly
at times
the awareness of words
is lost to meaning
but let the soul speak
silence into the clamor and
watch the world
unf… Read MoreThere is no time for poetryThere is no time for poetry
in the mad rush of daylight through
the skies, weighted with suspense
For the night that has lost its depth is now
t… Read MoreIn The City
Rain falls soft in the graphite night it
runs down the world and all
seems to melt:
traffic lights into pavement;
people into umbrella… Read More