White Angel – by Birch Book

I don’t know why but this reminds me of my sister who passed away last year June 19, 2018.  It makes my heart ache but I know I will meet them again someday.   Until my flight.  I will also be taken a break to finish a book I have been working on.  I am almost there and I have begun on another book and there is another book after that.  These are not poetry books.  Be well my friends.



White Angel

Traveler’s tears wounded memories
Hand’s full of days, these were the ways
You looked for home
Pale paths change marking out the way
Into the grace of day

Traveler’s tears, wounded memories
One hadn full of days
One hand on the cold hard ground
It’s as they say:
It’s coldest before the dawn
As the cold hard ground
Would signify

White Angel, White Angel, give me light
I have passed such a long time
In the cold dark night

My bruised and burning eyes
Await their dream of morning
Put your hand to the plow
Dry your traveler’s tears
Lick your wounds
Dress your memories
In woodbettany
It’s as you’d own:
It’s coldest before the dawn
And in your bones
You know the way back home

My bruised and burning eyes
Await their dream
Of morning




The grace of shadows



The grace of shadows


Shadows dance behind my eyelids turning previews into the search for a non-existent Terra Nova.

A thought impales itself upon a destructive power writing its own muse that crawls for the depths of humor.

Remembering the lost and not forgetting my place of dishonor in society, being the pariah of sharp tongues

While inflictions are shared and are connected on a plane of infinity, the surprises even haunt the faint at heart.

A modern preparation depicting the avarice of some, and healed with a glimpse of love twisted with chagrin,

The Pater Familia succumbs to old wounds and changes continuous important limitations shackled by the past.

By the grace of a replaced beggar accused of heresy, he begins his journey forward in a backward style of a deity

And to build on imprinting and swallowing, and by an appreciative lesson controlled by standing on one’s own grounds.

Naiveté inspires curiosity with eyes closed, blinded by entitlement surrounded by imagery from fertile thoughts and shadows that have not found their home.

A burning sensation pleaded with the insanity that has wandered in its own predicament entangled with nostalgia.

One has to salvage and prioritize solidarity, invading fragility of a flaunting validation

And struggling in eternity with remnants draped over chagrin and invading colliding melodies that flicker of a mysterious paradise.

An entitlement peruses by virtue of humbleness, seeking out the failure of truths scurrying back into abandonment.

A starlit night is mistaken for fireflies with a Sapphire twinkle, the smile of dimensions unknown and hidden in a secret society.

A translation is perched with new beginnings, to begin to lament and articulate many songs verses which are depleted during an aria.

The song verses pull on the heartstrings of clairvoyance attempting to reach out beyond the veil that obliterated the sense of sight only to let us see within our hearts.

And this is when we are spared by the grace of shadows.




Blinded Whispers




Blinded Whispers


I was honored by pulling the essence of scarlet emeralds and placing then in the womb of duplicity.

A spark in the belly,

before manipulation.

A birth manifested from death

and the candle held,

to the veil who guards its secrets.

Sensing the palindrome of life,

beneath the surface of the sanctuary of


I am preparing myself for my next birth.

With no womb – I scratch stars against the sky.

The moon tries to hold back the tears.

Well some of them.

The others, we tie a wish, a banner for all to see.

Sparkling my next pains of labor into the void.

Motionless – Silence

I am frozen in your thoughts

Don’t give wings to the ghosts.

They will fly all at once.

They are freer now!

And now I see diamonds in a candle flame twinkling a message to me.

One conquers while the other defends

I need a song that rises and ebbs to victory and to defeat.

I saw you slip the essence of poetry in my pocket for me to find another day.

My heart rises from where it fell and my hand, I extend to you.

And the fire in my soul is burning the sorrow away

There is a sign of an unbreakable umbilical cord.

Show me where you are blinded and I’ll show you where the whisper is telling its tale.





50 word story – Crossover





A shiny knife saw its place between his ribs.  A sharp pain and blackness prevailed.  A point of light became stronger.  He declined to go, being stuck between worlds without a foot in one.  He felt lost.  The light was seen again and this time he awoke from his dream.









To be the wind that blows

through the trees.

To be the earth cradling a seed.

The rain of growth.

The rain that washes.

The sun that warms.

And the stars that brighten our


I sit and I ponder has humanity

fulfilled its destiny.





With my fingers I write and with my mind I paint


With my fingers, I write and with my mind, I paint


There are songs hanging in the trees with the silver the moon holds.

Singing the melody of the heart until I close my eyes and you set me free.

Every note turns into letters which melt into longer sentences.

Without carrying the weight to my weakened knees.

The sunshine rises like butter in the sky spreading the warmth of whispers.

I never knew the secrets before me of a magical sunset before my dancing eyes.

And I bled tears from the sky.

Watching over you always my heart sent.

While it aches I tried to sing happy songs for you holding my hand.

Now I feel freedom.

But still, a prisoner of the earth weighted down by my eyelids.

And I hear your breath and the heartbeat so real always held together by warm memories.

And there is a sign sent so lovingly with a dove’s feather floating twirling in my mind’s eye.

It’s never too late.

Just the right moment always the right moment in time.

And I sent dreams falling from the clouds.

And you stirred them high and low.

And I slept softly on a rainbow of silk.

A comforting touch with a gentle embrace.

I sent a message from the wind into the trees.

A star sparks your name across the sky.

And my heart skips a beat.

The watercolor sunset you sent dripped into my essence.

I cry of joy of knowing.

I did not plant those trees on the mountains so tall.

I did not take my own breath away seeing such a majestic feast to the eyes.

Touch my soul with every flake of snow.

So individual and so made of oneness.

A painting paints itself in my mind.

Each stroke like none before.

I shed dew drops into the dawn.

Little morning mirrors.

And the raindrops dried into the ether.

I fear life, not death.

And my wings are left to do battle.