An act of bravery
Is painting with every colour that is in your soul
Splashing life on your canvas
Honouring emotions
With no thought of what others will think of your creation
Not TRYING to make it meaningful
Modern, pretty
Commercially viable
ACCEPTABLE
Just bursting out into the greater you
With total trust

Leaving on a train
capture the last
word of good bye
in a farewell tears
far away from home
come to a foreign land
known as a stranger
with unfamiliar name
In a lonesome place
where emotion resides
to convey a message
without a form of word
with a language barrier
filled with a sense of lost
in the hope of search
for a place that hold
dearly to the heart like
home resonate the
sound of joy
that bring hope to lift up
the spirit of love

There is her-
and there is me.
“other me” is probably the best term.
She’s me, but not quite.

She has an air, a sort of “otherness”
about her. “Otherness” that
I pull out of the air and promptly press
into my cheeks like powder.

“Otherness” I tap out of the day
like sticky sap from a maple.
“Otherness” that softly paves the way
to distinguish her from me.

The divide is subtle, and divine.
An upward tilt of the chin,
a softer touch, and wittier lines.
Behind closed doors, while I sleep,

Jughead was a billy goat
tied to the end of an old hemp rope.
munching on clover
and all kinds of stuff,
but something got caught
way down In his throat!
They put him into a truck
and rushed him off to the vet.
To see whether they
could extract the tin can.
That so easily he had injested,
to their dismay
old jughead had swallowed it whole.
The best solution
was to free the pollution
by farming him out
to a nanny goat.
Where in due time it might pass

Babysitting my nephew,
Michael, peacefully asleep
in his room in his crib,
strange noises, monitor beeps.

I, suddenly alerted,
put down a favorite book,
I'm yards away from his door
Michael screams, I run to look!

Michael standing in his crib
frantic screaming, eyes so red.
Sweeping into his bedroom
To pluck Michael from his bed!

Tightly grasping my shoulders
sobbing stops, stares straight behind.
Turning to confront what’s there
red-eyed demon... Flash, I'm blind!

Sometimes I wish I was a hyena
Running free through the woods
And laughing my head off every night
At the absurdity of all of this

God, how wonderful would it be
To drink from the streams and lie in the grass
To feel the breeze in my hair at night and howl
Under a million stars

But somehow I know this is all fantasy
Not the being a hyena part
But the part about freedom
For in this world
Not even the hyenas are free

On the box written in red
Do not open, that's what it said
A plain brown package, what's inside
We are dying to know, what can it hide

An animal is too big for a box this size
Maybe a present, a nice surprise
A forgotten birthday, a gift belated
Just waiting to be opened still we hesitated

A mystery delivery with no sender and no name
If it blows up a building who will take the blame
The suspense is killing, the room went black
Inside a small voice said : "help I'm Jack"

who do you want me to be?
tell me and i’ll become her.
clingy,
detached,
reassuring,
i can play it all.
i’ll read from my script
merely a puppet pulled by your strings.
i’m afraid of rejection,
have you figured that out yet?
i’ll play my part
to keep you along
until i hold the upper hand.
i want you to want me
unless i decide i no longer want you.
who am i really?
that’s for me to know.
for you, i’m whoever you want.
unhealthy, yes, but who the fuck cares?

And it was in that moment,
after her fall, making sure
nothing but her pride was hurt,
that she understood time,
and how it would always win.
As it always had.

But her spirit was not defeated by this.
It was as if the fall had shaken her to her senses,
allowing her to finally accept the nature of things
on a journey that many never get to make.

In a garden
children sing
and capture fireflies
in mason jars
evening breezes
fill the night
as the stars
light up the sky
walking down
at streamlets edge
we cross over
a cobbled bridge
something magic
has just begun
come and join
in natures fun
singing birds
and croaking toad
each have stories
which must be told
in a garden
long ago
there they met
to name them all!