I forget how old you are
and I remember digging
red clay hard from the summer
sun and heat

What a slender twig you were
accepting my  grip around your base
and the dirt around your roots

You grew mostly without my notice
leaping upward and outward
until all who passed admired
how sturdy your branches,
how rich your needles

Now you tower, shading hosta
and embracing the dogwood
beside you
even though it puts on airs

This season you spill
brown needles
like a dog shedding
its winter coat

I expect you will
linger long after
I perish

I had a dream of white pines
writing poems
I wonder if you noticed me
if you will long for me
not passing by, I wonder
do pines formulate poems
and will you ever
write one about me.

Once more the cauldron of the sun
Smears the bookcase with winy red,
And here my page is, and there my bed,
And the apple-tree shadows travel along.
Soon their intangible track will be run,
And dusk grow strong
And they have fled.

Yes: now the boiling ball is gone,
And I have wasted another day….
But wasted—wasted, do I say?
Is it a waste to have imagined one
Beyond the hills there, who, anon,
My great deeds done,
Will be mine alway?

"A comfort zone
is a beautiful place,
but nothing ever grows there..."

The truth is,
Nobody wants to be alone.
The reality is,
There are people who deserve to be.

Nordri, Sudri, Austri and Vestri

Jumped right off of the castle tapestry

Lithely they run to the cardinals post haste

And cannot regroup or the dragons they’ve chased



Would hem in the map again, like long ago

When the world’s termination at mount, cliff, or snow

Would imprison folks fearful of fathoms in fright

And torture the thoughts of the children at night




Our heroes hold up the corners of sky

They've all said hello, and politely, goodbye

To a remnant who seek to look outside their square

Compelled by their heartbeats and chilled foreign air



There may be dragons outside of this dome,

But we shall slay them! And leave hearth and home

To illumine the darkness and know our own worth

To fulfill what's been destined for all since our birth.

Last night I had a
dream, so definitely
indifferent from clouds
of thought which drift
over my sober-wreaked
mind.


I squint and shake
and shiver with
movements, so
statically paralysed.
Bathed in my pit
of sweat and insanity.


To fathom these
patterns of hidden
truth, libido,
won't do one bit.
It can't cease to
become.


If I'm not careful
enough or tentatively
scarce in a midnight
screech I'll be sure to
tell the world my fears.

Cut if you will, with Sleep’s dull knife,
  Each day to half its length, my friend,—
The years that Time takes off my life
  He’ll take from off the other end!