Perhaps I was a nightingale in a past life 
and that’s why my soul sings 

loudest in the starry moonlit night 

Why four walls feel claustrophobic- too tight, like a 

cage that I can’t quite escape no matter how hard I try

Monotony slowing killing me, one dreary day at a time 

Is that why I dream of being free 

like the bird I once was, unencumbered by rules and expectations

Such silly things to a creature with wings

Perched on a bare branch to sing, alone, lamenting all I’ve lost 

Pain transmuted into a beautiful poetic song 

Is that why I write rhymes, a ghost of that former life, where 

my melancholic music was a muse for artists and poets, alike 

Where once I sang, my pen now writes 

An ode to this life, to death, to love eternal

Grounded as I am, I will these words instead to take flight 

I don’t smoke.
It still smells like smoke
In my pickup truck.

Deadbeat dad, uh huh.

It’s going to be rough
Maybe I’ll stop and work
A little while in Ohio.

They’re going to kick my butt.

Well,
I feel
Nothing.

God is definitely female.

Okay,
Hello, kids, it’s dad, here, (don’t let them
Get too hard on themselves, right away, because
They haven’t seen me).

Pickup truck.

I’m leaving here, Seattle.

I hope I don’t hit another, suicidal
Damned deer
In Montana. You can’t
Do anything, around midnight, the poor
Creature turning with dilated pupils, can’t shoot
Can’t even do anything with a hammer.

Even if you stopped, you cannot step
Without causing even more sorrow and danger.

Calculus,
Continuous and discreet variables.

Them’s the breaks.
There’s just too many of us.

It’s almost Christmas,
And, I have to admit, the ex
Wife looks interesting to me, more.

She blinked.
I had the moment I expected,
And then I was gone.

Same old story.

The Seattle rain king, chasing beauty in the realm of night,
She can never come home again, must remain in Heaven.

Soundgarden, Love’s Like Suicide.
Listen to the lion rattler shake, he smiles and walks among them.

He ran from them once, in the streets of Baltimore.
Close on his heels, he leapt

Into the company of strange companions with guns.
They had shining teeth; and he lost all of them.

They played a game of poker once.
By chance, he knew some things about powder and pack.

“I have a breast plate. Knock, knock.”
Aim here, instead of here.

He knew the odds, but,
Always, what are the chances?

She said she needed to become a receptionist.
He could not pay for anything.

She brought him groceries and other pleasing things.
He said, no, stop that.

Black and white people,
Don’t be too rude when she asks about your momma.

She may drop that purse, only a single time, and wait.
If you pick it up and hand it to her, that’s enough.

Try not to be too bad, she’s good enough.
Twisted sheets, baby.

A kid named “Money” wants to move into the neighborhood.
There is some grass and a few deciduous trees,

That turn black in October and whisper through the telephone lines.
That’s enough snuff.

Lions in the doorways, block captains, dealing dope,
Cannot hide from the cop cars.

“Do you party?”, they sigh, dying for some decent conversation.
“No, thanks. Just knock if you need anything.”

He has some soul food cooking on the kitchen stove,
His mother, raised on a ranch in Missoula, Montana,

Congratulates him on taking good, country care of himself.
He thinks about horseback riding and misses home.

Somebody steals his pickup truck.
Next, his wallet is stolen by a homeless veteran.

The fear in his lizard brain cracks into a siren in his head,
And everything plunges into the realm of nigtht

Once again.

Where is the goddess of flowers?
She came here once from the Philipine Islands,

She seemed cute, gave him a pair of children,
One white, one black.

The door knock only happens twice
Before he turns everything inside out,

Fearless and searching, how come
They keep bringing groceries and practically starve themselves?

He wrote poetry once, and said, “here.”
She lost it once, was so frequently apologetic.

He never did miss her much, until he realized,
Every perfect being gets hit by a boomerang at least once.

These things keep repeating themselves,
On and on without any sacred, breakthrough realizations.

Tialoc, try to sleep.

Hold me tight with short sharp melodic bursts but wait what kind of commitment is at stake and I mean stake I fell into a burning ring of fire (Johnny Cash meets Wagner) and all kinds you know passive vs. active and so on so I am not necessarily going to take a rain check but I will ponder this more and behold we can go the way of Debussy; Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune this may plough (gently) new arable lands and how about the commitment but it was really just another waking dream and something fled!

Headphones on, he’s gone to mass

He’s gone online he’ll pay no cash

He’s hoping for some inspiration

Without the kneeling or prostration

Feast of Barnabus

that’s the saints day

Man of God

Or so the priest says

He walked with Paul

Not me, the other

And preached the Word

One, two, another

But now the church it’s in reverse

Some would say to call the hearse

Barnabus of Antioch

If he came down now he’d be in shock

Kids are gone, the Church is lost

The sheep are flocking on Tik Tok

Some shepherds are to be found in jail

Abused their calling, lost the grail

Now the wick, it is so short

Some say, thank God, perhaps there’ll abort

The irony, it can’t be masked

The Church its own iconoclast

Its preached to us

about our sin

whilst throwing compass

in the bin

Abortion, adultery, shut your mouth

we’ve heard enough, that ship’s sailed now

We need a Noah for the shepherds

The flood has come and they are lepers

So step on down from that there high place

And tell me of your need for grace

Forget the homilies, quit the wailing

Tell us now about your failings

You see that I know for I’ve made mistakes

And I needed you to be my rake

To help me gather my detritus

And release the crap we keep inside us

But you were busy with your own

And now you’ve slipped down from your throne

The one I made you, for it’s my fault

For I forgot that you are salt

So now the sheep must be the shepherd

And gather together to change the record

For we all need some absolution

As forgiveness cleanses the pollution

Paul Keogh

Hell have no fury like a liberal scorned

Deripaska’s been sent to Alaska,

out in the cold, Frozen

unwelcome in Disneyland

‘Kiss my derriere – right ‘ere’ they sneer

As they break in his back door.

Not even Mayfair’s safe

from the daughters and sons of Swampy.

I can hear Oleg saying

In his ‘Compare the Meerkat’ accent

‘don’t touch my Kandinsky’

or his Stradivarius and the,

various things he holds so dear.

People are holding their children in Mariupol

whilst, acting without scruples,

these political leaders

and the feeders from the trough

pull their strings.

Poor Ukranians, just pawns in a bigger game.

Wonder if Hunter Biden will go and fight?

or is he strictly a proxy man?

alongside these poxy men of war,

playing their games.

Nazanin was released yesterday.

Incredible what can happen when the game changes

Boris and Joe sending their envoys to Saudi saying

“give us more oil now”,

or we’ll get it from the Iranians

As Joyce said in Ulysses “pay up and look pleasant”

And so they paid Iran the £400 million

not for freedom, but for expediency;

they’re greedy you see!

They don’t give a damn about you and me.

It’s about their oil and gas resources,

thoroughbred horses and fine wines

which earth has given and human hands have made…

And now the West cries ‘slava Ukraini’

Like they’d been innocent actors all along.

As if Manafort and Papadopoulos

hadn’t been to the Russian metropolis

doing Donald’s bidding.

As we put our children to bed at night

others throw pebbles into ponds

One day we’re eating pastrami

the next we’re hit by a tsunami

that didn’t need to come.

But what do I know?

I’m just a bum poet!

The price to be paid for

Composition. A taste for

tradition: two enjambments

for a

pound

now!

Non-sequitur – you prick

his finger and put him to sleep –

Sleeping Ugly. Maybe he’s cuddly, but

not enough to kiss him from his

slumber. Stay down you bastard –

swallow the detritus of your life

whole

Transmogrify into a mole and find

the burial ground for your mind

if not your soul.

Force it down and wear your crown

on your feet man

You have work to do

These poems wont write themselves

The perpetual (light shine upon…)

escape artist – poet (ha ha). Who

you fucking kiddin’? Dropping your

bollocks you bollix like it means

(voices so mean right now)

something. Mum topped herself

twenty years ago, today. The ultimate

escape – wonder if she found her

place in the Son? The

priest reassured me that suicide

doesn’t prevent ascension (into

heaven and is seated…)

So they were lying to us? I thought, in

my grief, as I drank my relief. The

idea she would perpetually

suffer because she chose to end her

suffering killed me. Thank God for

chameleon priests! God bless Shane

and God bless Sinead too and anyone

who’s experienced it. God bless those

who lived to fight another day. God

bless those who chose the other way

Eternal rest grant unto them O Lord

and may perpetual light shine upon

them….

Pt. 2
Recalling Orlando
A poem tagged to a tree I passed by (there is current controversy about building a tramway on this particular street in my town)
We’d climb trees like lost fawns cut down what we need for the ‘arch’ after each Flood like children fashion what we need

Tender sun
Bursting with sweetness

Relishes

In the drowsy
Heat of summer

We hang

Over the hillside

—- Errant love.

if it takes me forty years.
 
Writing is a calling,
          not a career choice.
 
Sulphur and brimstone will first ignite across the sky,
 
I will not give up
until I have squeezed

sweat out of earth,
water out of stone,
blood out of the oceans.
 
I’ve been to hell and back five times
and I’m not going again,
 
but if I have to return,
I will make sure that I have
a few hands to hold.
 
YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
 
 
Doryn Herbst
 

Today I had to tell my kids,
I won’t teach them again,
We will not be together,
Until September, but then.
 
I won’t be their class teacher,
We won’t be 3G,
Our little jokes and relationships,
Were not supposed to be.
 
I speak of all the gatherings,
In the central corridor,
Of how they’ll see me in the playground,
Or through my classroom door.
 
I have not had the time to prep them,
Or even to prep me,
For the fact that our precious time,
Corona virus set free.
 
This little impact seems so small,
But no one warns you how,
These little people rub off on you,
So much that I miss them, even now.
 
So to all those children waiting,
For that return to school,
Remember we will always be there,
The teachers who-
 
The teachers that only got,
Two thirds of the school year,
Those who missed your every move,
And missed those little cheers.
 
I’m sorry that we aren’t allowed,
To be together again,
Believe me when I say,
I miss everyone of them.
 
Don’t forget us teachers,
The one’s who mourned their loss,
The one’s who tried to make you smile,
The one’s who hid their cross.
 
Because the anger’s overwhelming,
The fear and anxiousness,
But we kept it quiet, hidden away,
To make our feelings less.
 
Because, you are the most important,
My little, lovely lot,
Please remember that we care,
So much we lose the plot.
 
So parents, please remind them,
That we miss them, very much,
And while we can’t be there today,
We are trying as such.
 
The government’s guidance,
Constricts us, and whilst it’s not all fair,
I will still be their teacher,
Even when they’re not there.
 
I still want to see their pictures,
I want to see their joy,
I want to see what they’ve been up to,
And be with them for more.
 
And whilst I’m teaching another class,
To help meet the load,
They’re still important, they are still mine,
And they’re the best little lot I’ve known.
 
Please remind them their learning matters,
Even though they’re not in school,
That whilst their year group wasn’t picked,
That doesn’t mean they’re fools.
 
We want them back here with us,
We want them in our class,
If it was at all possible,
We’d fit them in this farce.
 
So as the year comes to an end,
And schools reopen here,
Remind them that I was their teacher,
Even if it was short this year.

Eyes 

My eyes linger on yours 

Eyes in their watery bowls 

that have seen too much 

felt too much 

hidden behind a black and grey filter 

so as to be more distant 

and more solemn 

like a dying star. 

Yet eyes tear into your arms, 

leaving gaping red wounds – 

slashes 

and slits 

of former memories 

and hurts. 

My eyes cling to yours, 

but their grip is failing 

a thin thread 

ready to snap –  

eyes that slip into darkness 

and see only a  

solitary sodden road 

that leads to 

a brandished gun. 

Eyes that won’t see tomorrow. 

Word Wrangler
I am the scribbler in the dark, the shiner of the light. I am the sociopathic brother that would throw you from the bed.

I am the beast inside you, he obeys my woven lines. I am commander of the armies, the ones inside your mind.
I am the ridiculous dictator, with an emblem on my chest. Marching down the street, eyes follow the curve of women’s breasts.

I have the secret power, look into my eyes. I would take me but a gesture to bring about your demise.
I have the power you gave me, I am the fluffy cat. I kill rats before breakfast, surely all want my heart.

I am the laughter before the joke, but sometimes many steps behind. Whilst you’re presenting conclusions I write notes on the 3rd slide.
I’m here to answer questions, but don’t really know how. Even if I read that paper, thoughts will not kow-tow. They don’t come when they’re called, sit in an ergonomic mess. I can only do so much, I was built like this.
I say fuck you to the scrapheap, I have a place in this field. My best is bloody awesome, and compassion you will find.
—
Pinned on my back by question marks,
Tender words with my scalp yanked,
I’m so cute you could eat me up.
—
I am the pause before the leap, the leap that leaves this world behind. I am the rush of red that betrays uneasy minds.
I am the love of dither, the pleasure of the faff. I wave hands like Tony Stark did, but deluded with no cash.
I am the doe-eyed fluffy, the thing that you defend. But I am somewhat damaged, scarred from your rage until the end.
Should I design a toaster, I’d test the size of breads. I am a sandwich maker, with packed lunch I am prepared.
I am the tin of tomatoes left in the supermarket aisle. With a fork-full of lasagne, do you choose anger or a smile?
I want to rush, uphold it, but feel calm from its sound: judgement’s hammer when it starts to fall, crushing weight it goes to ground.
I’m not just him, with his back against the wall. I know wrist-lock number three, and one of us will fall.
I give two fingers to the scrapheap, I have a place in this field. My best is bloody awesome, and empathy you will find.
—
‘A’ roads pass by.
Over Fields and through Warehouses,
Grey Noise finds a home.
—
I’m waiting for the sunrise, so I can lighten up. I want the world to change so I don’t have to, but I’m no longer a little pup.
I am the limestone coastline, weathered by salty gusts. In relief the conchy static leaves me alone with every tide.
In this river land my sea fever grows a little more. My feet crave island sand, the softness of new shore.
In our garden I’m at peace, with Lisa and our kitten-boys. When can I work from here, our warm and happy place?
I’m ready for conclusions, but not yet the end. Now things are clean and tidy, it’s time to be with friends.
I am a word wrangler, with agonising thoughts. I have warmth for the scrapheap, cut grass composting down. Under Staghorn Sumac shade, the keyboard taps as I grow.

Good evening

I’m soon to start my first Poetry School course. This is one of the poems I submitted for the final assignment of my recent MA. I got feedback that it was difficult to discern the tone of some of my poems – as the combination of menace, humour and romance was specifically mentioned I think this one was a big part of that. To me the unpredictable tone is appropriate to the theme of domestic violence. I would be interested to know how the tone lands with others – and any comments about how to take it forward if you find the tone awkward as a reader. Thankyou for any comments. I’ll definitely settle down to read and comment on material here in the next day or two. This group feels like a wonderful find.

 
The bruise

Embarassing how easily I fell 
for that old lamppost tale
again. Twinset, pearls and RP
and your secret’s safe with me.

The day old bruise, ripe and purple
as a plum, sun warm on the palm,
oozes if you squeeze, flesh soft
and wet as unset jelly, then fades,

slow as the charmer’s snake
lowers its hood, attentive
to every movement 
of the pipe, 
every tremor of the tune. 

That moment, bone
slamming into bone,
the bubblewrap collapse 
of the flesh between.

A Valentines day rose
bursts into flower. 

To me you are beauty personified on each page.

Dancing letters on velvet bedding, consolidated to tell stories of experiences to which I am rawly familiar with.

We are connected…

with each word…

I am you…

and you are me…

You are filled with truthful testimonies of emotion, bound by the vulnerable souls of brave story tellers.

Who were burdened by the poetic purpose to get the so called human to do the seemingly impossible….

To Feel.

By Tiff

I lied about you so often
to myself that the truth
about you became a truth
I could no longer separate
from all the other truths
stored and ordered in the
neurones of my mind.

The surge of happiness that
I feel when I think about you
is certainly no lie.

Your appearance
certainly is.

I live in the bliss of
self-inflicted ignorance.
Happy in my illusions
instead of sad with reality.

 
A hummingbird darts
 
through the slow
 
shadow of a hawk
 

 
The clock on the mantle piece
 
Goes tick tock
 
Drums run down the stairs
 
I´m glad I live in here and not out there
 

 
Cherished, calming, comforting
 
A warm wetness laps around my ears
 
And flows across my face
 
I breath in deeply
 
Life fills my veins
 
Two hearts beat
 

 
Whoosh, whee, whurgle, gurgle
 
Through the pipes
 
Hurray! Its diner time!
 

 
Mellow, dim, quiet
 
Now, a nice rest on the sofa
 
A gentle voice sings a peaceful lullaby
 

 
I kick my legs and make little waves
 
I kick my legs and make larger waves
 
I kick my legs and make a big thump
 

 
Collapse, confined, crushed
 
Something is pressing me in
 
Hey! Stop squeezing
 
That’s my arm you got there
 
Push pull, push pull
Taking me down
 

 
Blinding, brilliant, bright
 
Light enters my eyes
 
Water spurts out of my nose
 
A cosy blanket is wrapped around me
 
Snug arms holding me tight
 

 
Whaaa!
 
What´s that noise?
 
Whaaaaaaaaaa!
 

Comments welcomed.

As the days while away I stay irregular as my routine,

The rain can’t drench me beneath these covers,

I indulge in irrelevant paperwork and file scrolls mentally,

How many elaborate schemes in my head that I can’t figure out?

In my dreams I get chased, they try to shoot me awake,

From night terrors begets heavy robes shredded by foibles,

It makes me want to disappear, but I only sink deeper,

This just means there is always more for me to think about;

More downfall upon downtrodden votes of falsified principles,

Manoeuvre through salacious scoundrels, worst kind never seen,

It’s easy to speak softly when the wise learnt not to rebel,

Get some rose-tinted spectacles so you can look up to the future,

But remember the past if there is ever any uncertainty,

Some say we only live one life in one astral existence,

And there cannot be enough misery to wallow in sorrow,

Perchance the end doesn’t quite meet the truth,

Although, you wept in the beginning,

Detached, therefore, deceased,

Inevitably, the light shall cascade heat and lustre,

Then the shadows evolve to dance away the fickle cheer.

Hi everyone it’s my first time posting something up so I hope you enjoy 😊

It was Sunny morning of dimmest light
And I was like a wanton hare of urge
Feeding perpetual thirst each day and night
Cravin’ for bliss ‘til myself to diverge

Dark, tortuous frame gleams as picture viewed
Bolt, on azure-tinted word balloon, popped
“I now dare you…” bitter note came to view
From him, my guru, ofttimes utters “Stop!”

A blear yet clear image of me waken’d
Next to screen, glimpsin’ wilded animals
Eyes are uneasy with hands were shaken
Escapin’ filthy world that was real

After a quick shot was a misty drip
Wetting withered skin with woebegone smile
As eyes open’d, I felt then a warm grip
Fixin’ gently my shatter’d piece of tile

I’m open to critics, opinions, and advice.

Bee love

Feeling pretty

Feeling glad

Feeling free to express

Express myself

Myself as an express

An express for where ?

Place and time of being

Being… Bee in

Inside my head

Louder and Louder…

Silenting myself down the noisy sound of bee

Silenting myself down the noisy sound of be

Being the sound of bee

Bee in not the sound of be

Honey get out the sound of bee in my head

Be the sound of me

Honey be the sound in me

Sometimes I dream and think in another language because mine is not enough Sometimes I need more words, and create them

Sometimes I need an other way of breathing and I create another body, another being, another time

Sometimes I need to be and I create another world

This one is not enough or maybe this one is not the good world I need this world.

I need this utopia…

Oh excuse me ! Could you please help me ? The way of Utopia ?

Love ? Love you say ?

Oh… OK So… Where is love ?

Oh in me ?

Where ?

In my heart, my stomach, my legs, my feet, my head, my ears ?

Love is ?…

Could you repeat, please?

Oh…Love have no space but only one place…

Oh… Ok… I go there…

Thanks… I go

Stripped..

Poetry from the raw .

Gift
under the covers heaving and moaning
work is done
dirty natural work
the slipping and sliding of flesh and the 
coming together 
borne under covers.. heaving and moaning and groaning 
 the slipping and sliding of flesh to give birth to a form
 a shape of sound crying and grasping…

Gift…..

The form made visible

compressed air bellows into the room 
sound shaped by flesh in the naked light.. released, 
a deposit..
leaving the body to make a body in the outside from the inside.
So it goes again and again
The form visible to the naked eye in the naked light from a naked form to two naked forms separated.

Midwife…
She makes the bed and takes off her blue plastic pinnie…
like she’s finished in the kitchen…
then brings tea.
The sewing begins … quiet domesticity . Flesh stitched and pulled with skill
into a previous shape knocked out of shape by the human shape…
Put back into shape reluctantly and painfully…
Scars marking motherhood in the secret parts, hidden from view..
felt with each footstep and pram push up to the clinic.
A reminder….

Breast
Less hidden from view (though some would prefer it that way…)
Pumping breast.
Iconic and common.. full of the good stuff but also some bad stuff

They argue,
Fling words around which  shatter into a million pieces
The shards ripping and cutting deep inside their hearts
Tears and sore breasts
It shouldn’t be this way…
He feels useless and lost.

The need
The hunger The cold The isolation
Then the touch skin with skin
In connection consuming and consoling

Black rain and a cigarette
Make me smoke up head to toe,
Look me into my eyes.
Keep the small talk out the window
And ask me about my lies.

Skin and bones on a rickety bed,
Strewn around by half-singed cigarettes.
Breeze blows loose the gown of the dead
My ashen effigy disintegrates.

Dreary downpour of drab desire,
Overcast deluge of drunken dreams.
High-spun clouds of doubts and debts
In my dull, drenched soul it screams.

Angry sprays of earth and mud
My barren white soul it stains.
The wheel of life it perpetrates,
Soaked in passion it pains.

I look at the world from underneath
The futile cover of my umbrella black,
Swift gales of Jealousy upturn it though
While Her cold, wet fingers stab my back.

Crouching within my yellow-lit room,
Illusions of warmth flood over me now
But I peer outside to a glistening road while,
My life trickles down death’s eyebrow.

You wore a white shirt with brown line
We drank pints of larger and she drank lots of wine
Smoking “Romeo Juliets”, lost track of time
Lover of life, you always shine
She said good bye, you said why not stay
“You are flying away at dawn!” she kissed and shuffled away
Another bird flown, no glass slipper or moan
Despair was not for liberation, nor about the motherland that was torn
In that checked shirt, you talked about lovers
Ones that were Lost and found; but no more ours
Lust, wine, music and political powers
War, genocide also the Death threats that hovers
Ten years ago, on that starry night
Hugging me under the street light
That shirt flapped in the wind with your wide eyed smile
“Mach(j)anng! See you soon!!” you held my hand a little while
Saw you again, on a screen
I sobbed whole day did not scream
Bound gaged and murdered in a ditch
Is it democracy or terrorism? Do not know which is which
You wore the same white shirt with brown line
Do not want to say “farewell!”, I know you  are fine
I want to know why you wore that same shirt
I did not want it stained with blood and dirt
Ten years had lapsed since you left me in a mist
My only honour was to be in the same death list
Sooner or later we will meet in a bar along the way
Do not wear that shirt again, a stain of wine will stay

In memory of my last drink with my friend Taraki – Dharmalingam Sivaram (1959 – 2005) few days before he was abducted and brutally murdered. Bound gagged and blindfolded body of Taraki was found in a ditch in the high security zone near Parliament building in Colombo. He was a senior journalist and writer. Ten years later, no one had been punished for the crime. Several journalists were murdered in Sri Lanka during the last three decades. No one was ever convicted of killing a journalist in Sri Lanka.  

usually i have
a small
folding table
in the kitchen
set up for thirteen.
 
they each sit
& drink
from the
cuppletts of sound.
their plates
are heaped with
the dumplings of symbols.
 
punctuation
always waits for
the final image
to come hot
from the oven.
 
Often the punctuation
coughs & complains
that the goose
 
is too dry.
 

Plague

Who cuts the rook’s mask, it’s thick glass eye

Who pulls the cathedral bell, darkly,

Darker still?  I visit corpses in alleyways

Darkened in fear in an immunity moving

Faster than the travails of this disease.

Civilization has lost her paper on half her sons

They’ve raped us and hanged us upside down

(you may only have heard of their second charm)

I cough up vertebrae and bones from their toes

In an intimacy between these pyramidal pyres

Built by them who fear the end.

At first light I sleep in their wagons

By noon their roans disappear

Again, from fear.  I know someday

This all will end, frogs will again be splashing

Clouds of pestilential wound will cease to swarm

You and I then can, again

Depart this despairing world

Building castles in the air

 
I’ve got dreams,
Of the likes you’ve never seen.
I shouldn’t cut,
I’ll nip this in the bud.

I got dreams,
That quiet the screams,
I don’t know how,
That’s good for now.

I let the sweet song,
Of the can-do-anything!
Sing so strong,
This new vibration they bring.

Go ahead fresh waves,
My arms outstretched in the air,
See how far I’ll fare,
While the demons are tame.

birds can’t sing about it
in general
porcupines and foxes
pass unheard
is grief the right word
if we can’t hear its passing
in general
the day I lose my deafness
will hear cascades of water
not oil-fed machinery
open at every particular point
to what cannot be heard
or seen