Per vatim poetry



Per vatim poetry


The wind combs

Its hand through

The melancholy of desire

Putting out its flames

That ignites

The metamorphosis of banality

Singing a piece

Of musical poetry

With words travelling

On the notes

Of our wisdom.

And only then

Poetry will write itself

Upon our soul

And leaving our essence thirsty

For words strung together

And having sewn

Themselves in our memory

To conquer our intelligence

Which does a supplication

Bartering every ounce

Of a renewed breath

That speaks sweet peace




Just is




Just is



Are the words

You have written

Upon my soul

And played a soliloquy

With spiritual language

Resonating with all the cadences

In my life of stillness

And of hearing

A crystal clear


That speak

To my essence

That calls within

In meditation

While vibrating

To a different journey

Within a tumultuous Universe

That expands and retreats

With consciousness

Which eventually loopholes

To a beginning with no end

And to an end with no beginning

Alpha – Omega










I have many around me

But still is the air

I walk asleep

Grinding bones beneath my feet

Their masks fall down

To the earth for recycling

And we fly by the seat of our pants

The air is still – still

No words in flight

No olive branches

For the awakening

And the machination of society

Plays an orchestra

Of subliminal messages.

You can taste

The dry air

Of its dustiness

The grit of humanity

Wiped on the forehead of intervention

Stillness in the air is felt

Not a noise, not a word

Only the essence of stillness

Of knowing





A lullaby of going home



A lullaby of going home


I’m writing you a lullaby.

To print upon your soul,

Watching the letters fall,

From my mouth.

Writing my future,

Ahead of my knowingness,

And the cornucopia of my life’s novels

Have read themselves.

And yet to live the final chapter

To the last sentence,

To the last dot,

To the last breath.

The beauty of mystery,

Welcoming the flight,

The release,

To roam freely,

From the weight,

Of this tattered suit,

Of skin and bones.

Something long buried,

Stirred the memory,

To come home,

And as I close my eyes,

I feel the lift,

And home I go.