just sitting here
out of the blue
and clear...
waiting for the axe to fall,

when will it drop?
soon, I think
another head goes plop,
as I hit the dirt.

I'm being used,
and sadly
so abused,
by callous behavior

it's not great
to wait on a call
and start to hate
the object of my affection...

it takes a village

they say it takes a whole village to raise a child—
but every poem is born that way too:
shaped by the voices we half-remember,
the streetlamp’s hush, the coffee-scented mornings
when language first felt like skin.

the poem and its village lurk in back alleys of memory:
old textbooks stacked by the bedside,
a neighbour’s pointed advice,
the ragged notebook you left open in the rain.
it gathers these fragments
—every borrowed syllable— and knits them
into something unmistakably yours.

Imagine if spiders,
Were somehow less scary.
Legs all dangly,
Wobbling like jelly.
Or perhaps, they could wear,
Eight tap shoes,
And dance all day.
Their web could be,
A tight rope of fun,
With a ball pit beneath.
Or a trampoline.
I'd be no longer
Scared, or anxious.
Instead I'd have a blast.
in this spidery world of fun.

in unrelenting deep purple Depeche Mode crisis...

I watch the warm tea
Steep beside my open journal.
The curling steam
Fogs up the window.
I draw a heart with my finger.

Something about this…
Somewhere between the silence
And the opportunity—
Lines on pages,
Ready to be filled
With whatever I please.

My sweater hugs my arms –
A blanket draped over my legs.
I feel calmer,
Just in the presence
Of warmth,
Lost in the moment
Of the unknown

T Today another boy entered this world
H He smiles, squeaks and bubbles with joy
E Every movement is watched with happiness
O Over and over we laugh, hug, and express our love
D Delight has entered our family one additional time
O One more heart to love, one more family member to hug
R Remembering this day will provide a loving memory
E Emptiness no longer fills our minds, a new child fills our hearts

Sunbeam Records

Some believe your soul leaves a mark—
not in big achievements or dramatic stories,
but in where you choose to slow down and rest.

The sunbeam doesn’t announce itself.
It just lands quietly on the exact spot of floor
that stays warm too long,
where the dust drifts like tiny galaxies.

Bare feet pressed against the wooden porch.
Laughter spilled like lemonade.
The sunlight clung to our glasses
and danced with every ice cube

Citrus-sweet air,
rising like a memory
Not yet made,
but eager to return

Bright smiles,
as wide as the summer sky-
We said all but
“I love you”

Although unspoken,
It lingered-tangible and sweet
Like the first
of many lemonade kisses

The pen felt
like a long lost companion
longing his touch.

It was light and responsive in his
hand, it squeaked and
scratched gingerly across the
page. It was like he hadn't
gone away to the south of
France to escape.

The slit in the nib was
precisely cut to perfection
allowing a careless flow
and prevented his ink
to famish.
The ammonia
and chemicals brewed a
concoction embodying
the man's library comfortably.

Poverty became a shroud,
that stifles any sense of joy.
A quicksand of desperation,
Without a lending hand.

Sadly too many subscribed,
to the "it's all about me" trend.
Wealth creation, a golden sun that blinds
Left too many souls behind.

Forgotten people, shadows fading,
Plunging into darkness.
And many didn't notice their fall,
Caught up in all the bread and circus.