5. Counting

5. Counting

Steps taken over the waters

As if through time as well

It is suspended

After I leave here

Before I get there


As I project thoughts

that play along the rails

Counting each hop

Counting each skip


Then returning as if

none of it occurred

The bridge ends and soon

I’m home



Sprinkles & Memories

Variety is the spice ,the sprinkles, the chocolate chip. The profound in the mundane, mundane in the profound all that is new becomes dull, then new again. Everything is borroed, and nothing is ever kept, there’s no keeping each other, nor any other person. It’s not so much the person that is kept, but all the time we borrowed together.

Then we’ll have memories, even of the things we’ve forgotten. We’ll feel different and differently, about the emotions we had and the emotions we have. Young or aged, nothing new, movements made, altered, just different. All of us, each of us, changed.


Moving from the


In the solitude of

the wellness


The materials

of pantheon

In making

a torrential metaphor



waves of an animal



Charter an age

from ageless




The Effaced Jewel of Jasmin

It seems I have wandered

into a senseless swirl, a vapid

spiral that has broken the

brittle back of all my prior



It’s a muse filled void that

enraptures that which is

nature’s docile palms.


Flung once more into the

rambling storm encrusted

winds. I lay my fate upon

the waters it first waved

its way into my sarcastically

ampled bosom.


The heart at first taken fro a grant,

then kissed by fates fingertips,

and then valued at the meaningful

pinnacles, now lifted up, it becomes flung,

and I no longer  cling unto

those sickly winds.

i. Voyeurs To Celestial Bodies

From the morning wood of youth

turned to blacken coals and

set to flame


Now I am a white ash,

neither calm nor enraptured

Absorbing and emitting nothing,

I do not grow cold, my

soil neither sterile nor



My waters remain level,

neither stagnant nor overflowing

The suns dallyi’ with the

moons, neither rain nor



From ashes to ashes, in ashes

as ashes, the smoke has lifted and left

me, the air is clear in the crackling void.

xvi. Unwritten


the anthem

of that age

shall be


Shall be

beyond the



Uplift and

laid to



Downed shall

sleep the age

And awaken

that sleeping



As Mnemosyne

watches over

all these our




All the more

vivid the memory

of the loosely

lucid dream


The writer’s

answer by

an ephemeral

hand of timeless

thought, plucked

from ancient thinkers’



‘ Age’s goal is

contemporaneity. ‘