Tuesday, May 1, 2018




The violence in the city peeks around corners,
grows and grows, explodes full throttle.

Tamp it down, make it rain calm,
not so easy with heads and hearts
full of rage and fear.

The white noise of the metropolis is deafening.
Reason unheard, reason ignored.

Pray for peace,
wherever tall buildings loom,
and streets are rolled out crowded,
and loneliness and despair
reproduce in abundance.

And what you see ahead
looks like what you just saw behind.

And the left and the right look the same.

And what’s at your feet
is the same color as what is over your head.

And there's nothing to bring the calm,
because the rain won’t come,
when the violence of the city
parches the land, heats the air, and dries up hope.


The Word Weaver,
weaves the tapestry,
using the cloth of pen and paper.
bringing to pass
the beat of the universe,
of beauty, duty.
Solemn and reflective,
such heartbreaking feelings
or triumphs of joy.

The Word Weaver
weaves thoughts, emotive,
styling, stylish.
Each according to how it is dictated,
pulling from the Ether,
the word of the Maker,
or the innermost enunciation of the universe.

Giving to humanity
the thesis and antithesis
of all thoughts
uniting or dividing mankind.

As a writer,
find your peace,
synchronicity, and accord,
Actualize the fruition of dreams.
Consecrate your soul
with confidence.

(For You, Stephen Hawking)

My soul’s greatest peace lies somewhere beyond the moon.
In time, I will travel to that place and settle there.

For now, only in my mind may I visit,
and upon each returning, I become more convinced
that I exist now only in a shadowland, as if behind a sheet,
set up for a puppet theater.

I am a silhouette and all I see are the same.
When I, once and for all, can walk through that realm
and touch the things that provide its array,
I will experience the first reality I've ever had.


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