The pearl orb hung
low in the sky,
wisps of cloudy tendrils
drifting by her shapely full-face.
Lady moon looked down
to the faithful silver wolf
serenading her from below.
In the frozen distance
traveling the air currents
he caught the young she-wolf's
strong, sustained riposte...
His quavering voice
echoed a heartfelt howl
promise of lupine love
under the stars, a paradise
of passion, frosted breath
on the timberlines...

In the quiet town where whispers meet,
Lives a man with restless feet.
He leaps before his thoughts align,
Tracing paths both wild and fine.

Through cobbled streets, he roams so free,
A heart unchained by destiny.
Yet every turn, a choice unplanned,
Leads him to a troubled land.

He sees a bridge, decides to cross,
Ignoring signs that warn of loss.
The planks beneath his hurried stride,
Creak and groan, yet he’ll abide.

The quotes of wisdom we read and repeat,
Fall like snowflakes around my feet.
Surely they are not meant for me,
I’m already wise as you can see.

I’ve had a few trips around the sun,
And I’ve gotten wiser with everyone.
I dumb things down whenever I talk,
So folks don't turn around and walk.

I can’t be humble although I try,
I'm always right, I ain’t gonna lie.
I look in the mirror whenever I can,
And think, “Now there’s a handsome man.”

To see through a broken mirror,
Reminds of a life hanging on a dying cliff,
Living through perceptions, envisaging heavenly worlds,
Hanging on a thin fabric of wire, crafted from doubt and dreams chewed to shreds and satire.

To see through a broken mirror,
Is like surfing through lost ego,
Memories of love so golden,
Broken to bitter taste of fragile hate,
Cold stares of regret flushed with tears,
Accompanying swallowed pains of longing and faith.

They call the wind—behind the bars,
Tortured souls with countless scars,
Their sky holds no real shining stars.
Life’s bizarre, life’s bizarre.

They call the wind—can no one hear?
The fearful whispers creeping near,
The grief of children, sharp and clear.
Free us of fear, free us of fear.

They call the wind—once, twice, and thrice,
Men and women paid a high price
For cruel spirits cold as ice.
Chase out the mice, chase out the mice.

I should have known that times were tough when I turned against my poetry
When I turned against the only language I know
To speak in one that I could not understand.
I learnt his native tongue of vile words
With a nasty accent
And a curdled, scrunched face
And still, I wasn’t heard
So not only did I lose my language
I lost my voice and myself

As I begin to slowly emerge
from the depth of my emotions.
I am very much
like a safe
that has been closed
and shuttered
for a long period of time.
Some safes
open with a key.
My safe,
the safe in my mind,
required more than a key.
My mind required a specific code,
one tailored for my needs.
Once I had that code
the combination needed
became clear.
As I sit here
today,
I now have a combination
which works for me.
I am working
on this combination

Deep within the forest's heart, where whispers softly speak,
Stands the mighty Twin Oak, resplendent and unique.
Its roots run deep in earth's embrace, like kidneys pure and strong,
Filtering life's essence, in the dance of nature's song.
Its trunk, a steadfast column, the spine that bears the load,
Uplifts the weary branches as they lighten every road.
The branches stretch like arms to hold the sky's embrace,
With leaves like fingers, tender, caressing air and space.

I spoke to the Universe.

"I have faith in You," I said.
"You are wise and I am oh, so small."

I nestled in grass near a wandering brook,
wanting nothing more than its sounds to hold me.

"I am the messenger," it sang. And I listened,
falling asleep as the day passed around me,

the sun, rising then disappearing. The moon, the stars,
the milky way enfolding me with virgin lace sewn from remnants

It lie there in my path, recently fallen
in the blustery downpour,
having served its original purpose.

Still repelling the rain, not yet succumbing to the deluge,
allows it to form small round windows on its surface
magnifying the petite patterns of the arteries.

The leaf, having discovered a new ambition,
has found another calling; beckoning me
to notice its second act of beauty.