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.



A beckoning call



A beckoning call


I pull strands of lightning from the sky.

And I crackle stars along the way.

A grain of sand is where my dreams are held.

Perhaps this is where you would rather stay


Like fireflies in a meadow’s night.

Light up where my chosen path will be.

Light and darkness is where all shadows play.

My guided soul they will let me see.


The sea seems to yawn her well kept secrets.

As she seductively waves her silky hand.

A beckoning from within a chattering shell.

A calling in whispers throughout the land.


It seems the soul is being called.

A sweet calling to come home.

We have prepared a place for you.

Where freely you will roam.



Whispering Spirits



Whispering Spirits


I painted pictures with words and ephemeral sentences in a clandestine utterance of a bird in hand

dying and its spirit leaving into a wall of departure.

Sitting at the table of the universe a dark floating idea occurs through the window of grandeur tied

with a bow of cold November rain, with the dark floating idea which evaporates in a fictional


And the meditational incense whisked away with the gentle breeze of a decaying of passing time,

rescinded into the future with memories erased from another element.

The capturing of poison permeates the promise the relic of spilt blood in a one word whisper with the

promise of putting too much importance on self.

Alternative venues of belief clashes with the swords of words of others in the arena of nothingness.

Every day I rise, I keep the twinkles from the night with the knowledge at my fingertips, inhaling the

stillness of peace.

With petrified thoughts, the yearning and desire to leave Gaia with eternity on board and loyalty to

the flesh inhibits our leaving – so we think in narcissistic thinking.

A feverish pitch begins, fallen from life who once stood tall on their laurels, and now must accept that

this life ends with a new one that begins.

Your name is being called in the hollow of the unknown and the universe raises its eyebrow and with its

eyelash begins to paint the secrets of memories behind the gossamer veil.

I begin to disconnect moments of life, to write on new tablets of a fallen leaf in the ether, us being

the engineers of our own existence.

A shimmering figure appears with remaining tears of sadness willing to let go into another dimension of


Spoken words from the other side burn through the veil with floating little lights twinkling their

presence of disbelief.

The body is just a garment which shackles us down to earth, leaving us only in vapors of death, the

release to another life being the sails of freedom.

I crossed over and was forced to drink from the vessel of forgetfulness looking all the while at the

Stained glass we call humanity.

It’s like a blur of memory fading into an abyss to allow messages spoken from the afterlife to filter into