The Returning


The moon, held suspended on a cloud

like a jewel in an outstretched palm

that clenched its fist

over a creative instrument

that prisms the light to beam through the sky.

From this vantage,

see the night thaw into a fleeting image

of my own willingness

to let the past be prologue

and memory become notes in a ship’s log

bound for East Point

painted on the horizon

like a raised birthmark over a darkened skin,

it’s set in its own isolation.

Through the El Greco sky of the mind,

unsteady in the swirl of shade and light,

poles teeter on the edge of each other ,

delicately dancing in the glow.

Where it beckons you’ll follow,

tracing lines to their inevitable ends,

leaving a progeny of words

strung against words

like a procession of lanterns

engulfed by waves

extinguished candles of breath

that craved oxygen,

building up only to give in to collapse.

All the thoughts and differing shades of meaning

shifting the gleam to tide pools cascading

from an overarching theme,

where everything is passing through.

For a moment the moon holds true,

weightless and suspended in a bubble of foam.

A perfect circle, timeless, eternal,

always returning home.


The Wound


When night finally collapses,

dawn is the wound through which the light passes.

As the great moon, in the trajectory of its swoon,

consolidates to day,

witness its fade into listless clouds

braced for a fall

with only a thin gauze

to soak up the remains of its thaw.

Beyond the slumber of the creator

behind the shear walls of the crater,

smoke fills the windswept precipice,

smoldering beneath the retreat of dark,

the sun was the first spark, the most prominent streak

that flashed across the page.

With a pause to peek over the edges,

it’ll teeter like an illuminated feather

spreading under waves of undulating color

blinding the horizon’s climatic ending.

If words parted the veil of memory,

starting a slow descent from its volcanic cavity,

bright lines would burn from an inner landscape like a vision,

over fields of new growth with regeneration.

Through each entity, no construct spared

nor offered immunity,

it clears every border

progressing towards her sea

where sharks of the subconscious,

sensitive to emotional debris,

encircle the tattered remnants of the past

sinking slowly into shadow,

eclipsing the material

with shades of stained glass in eternity.

Like a prism, the light passes through

even the deepest wounds eventually.


Night, A Creative Entity

victoria chinatown

Curious to witness

the night,

a creative entity,

molding the light

delicate and withdrawn

into an embrace

the varying shades of saffron

over the entrance to the underground

ushered in by neon

through the moving canvass

it is projected on

shoulders and exposed skin

tattooed to a blinding whim

so long pent up within

the visual identity

now fracturing

the individual

on the cusp of discovery

a kind of ritual

sold for the price of an entrance fee.

The beat throbs

proceeds to rob all of inhibition

as they brush lightly

in this wilderness of exhibition.

With soft masses of applause,

all are warming to the Dj’s dream

to playlists that stamp energy between

white walls and velvet halls

leading to further alcoves of intoxication.

Surreptitious claws reach out for connection

for attention, there’s an apprehension,


yet with an intuitive fashion

famed for its derangement of the senses.

You dance willingly in this suspension

until the red light framed in doorways

draws your attention

and suddenly it is closing time

and all are expelled

like shadows to evaporate

through the steaming plates of chinatown

to disintegrate and drown

in the space between strangers

who’ll communicate with an empty eighth

to the first rays of light

breaking through the shade

and the window pane

breathing between thin sheets of white

on which the versatile night

will leave its mark once again.

From a Poem Unwritten

wet cobbled roadway

How the light plays into the dark

like a moon through stained glass,

cutting a swarth across marble floors.

It seeps into the cracks

like water to the tracks,

how a distant piano

to a curious ear attracts

a frozen moment.

You follow the fleeting

seeking some origin,

reaching out for inspiration

as if it were original sin.

Recitations from a poem unwritten.

Words hidden under the tongue

of the surface incantation,

medieval in contour,


namelessly forgotten,

however flourished with eternity.

The melancholy of indecision,

climbing the walls of narrow passages

like wisteria

you adhere to the impulse

to cover all that once lay bare,

manifest this destiny and call it progress.

I digress,

down blind alleys,

breathing in sanctuary

beneath a swaying sheet wind.

I drag tired fingers around the next bend.

The next barrier

is more impressive than the last.

There’s an attempt to grasp

something in the lapse between thoughts,

to preserve the feeling

too fleeting to remain aware

of its tingling presence.

Like a mist on the skin,

it is enough to inspire devotion.


Frantic steps ring off the cobbles,

a shadow climbs the wall

only to stall in chiarascuro.

Like a scene from Caravaggio,

this nameless friar

will pass through desire

until all becomes a dark entry in prayer.

Something is always left in these corners,

where candles aid their illumination

and thoughts drift elsewhere

in the dancing theatre

of undefined movements.

The unknowing becomes vagabond

to the warmest of comforts.

You find yourself

in these blankets of cloud cover,

observing holes in the disguise.

The veil suddenly lifted,

experience immediate

under infinite skies.

No longer a stranger

to reviving lines

fading like frescoes,

while time is like dead skin

floating down the drain of revision.

Flushed and transported by traces

left to sparkle on wet stone,

so that you can gaze upon these mirrors

and hasten a return home.

Home, your feeling

is kept fleeting.

A haven

so you can continue repeating

these steps that lead you

towards the perfect escape. 

Scorched Tones


Where solid ground joins the night,

it shares in the solitude

to complete the passage of light.

The full moon was looming

to translate the darkness

into something immutable.

Tracks and terrain,

the lightning framed by trees,

bright flares on the road to nowhere.

A charred skin,

the strange shapes that were foreign,

are floating to find the ocean bottom.


The places you once were,

seen from above sacred remnants left there.

Scorched tones over all the miles it would clear,

lifted from predictable confines.

A timbre to allign you with something larger,

poised to witness

the first light on the dark outlines,

the shadow of a crater

the expectant shoreline.

From the deep, an utterance

A breath that broke the wave with foam

The OM that shook the universe

<The forming

The warming of molten lava

driving the ages out of forgetting.

The momentum meets you like an idea,

like thoughts beyond the last inlet

that hit the rocks before disappearing.


Following sounds down to the edge of pages.

Translucent white oceans

bright and turning over

the foam-shimmered stars piercing

the sea flowing ink from the well.

Resuming its journey,

like wayward lovers

who meet in eternity.

Overlapping in colors

disguised as one merging

memory of a setting sun.

Taste the salt on your tongue.

So close and yet you have not begun

to touch the wind and feel the flow

of feathers falling like embers from the unseen

enveloping wings

that will not disclose or decipher the meaning,

for nature is both separation and cohesion.


The moth realizes it’s drowning

in the wax of indecision.

Is this what it means to be safe?

To frantically flutter

until surrendering to exhaustion?

To whatever it is you write

in the blind light of the flame

that sees you through the night?

You are led through narrow passages.

In ancient quarters and in darkened corners,

there’s a seductive presence.

Features are revealed in a moment’s matchlight,

smoke lingering in neon effervescence.

What is left besides cigarette ends

in the evening arabesque?

The isolated design of these markings,

words at the end of an invitation

crossroad within a chapter abandoned.

How long can a spark linger?

A wallowing flicker

to follow footsteps into ash?

The story of fire spread over land,

kindling the torches

passed from hand to hand.

The wind whispers softly past

the ragged shapes in the swirling sand.

Born of freedom

Born of vagrancy

Born into customary migrations

of colorful veils

giving birth to dances

of moonlight on barren lava fields.

Once this time has lapsed into the creation of new land

you’ll find these tracks molded into the black

are the only impressions that last
of a flow that both holds and alters everything.