I clothe myself in rags, and all riches  
envy me  
I cry with those in pain, and wonders  
visit me 

perhaps I should take to the normal way  
and douse the flames that light me up  
perhaps I should dull the fires inside  
and take to drinking from an empty cup 

perhaps passion should be wholly banned  
and love is just a waste of a word  
perhaps kindness is a silly cliché  
and one should follow the powerful herd 

and damn the vision and burn the wings  
banish all seasons, or paint them gray  
Instead let’s color the songs, let lovers sing!  
and rejoice in the rainbow and all its rays! 

I speak the tongue of flowers, and lions  
listen to me  
I lead the forests to water, and rivers  
follow me 

I fix my heart on giving and what is mine  
comes back to me  
I turn my Soul to living and the sublime  
happens to me

Poetry is best learnt with metre, and rhyme too.  
Add thunder to your timing but keep your timing true!  
A poem must have punch, may have flaws,  
may shock, may shine, but should follow laws. 

Wordplay may be subtle or spiced with gall. 
Who writes by the cliche, by cliche will fall, 
and poetry without sense is a tale without head; 
label it ‘art’ (but leave it unread) 

A poem may be sublime or hot as rage. 
May best be ‘free’ or in rhyme’s cage, 
though in these times of free, free is overrated  
and in his grave lies Whitman, devastated.  
  
*note: Whitman ranks among the great early   free verse poets (and he really was a great poet!)

unless the sun descends deep into our life  
unless we add meaning to endless strife  
unless we touch living flowers each day  
unless we love on though love look away

and this let us resolve , “love won’t die out  
or dampen within us, though at times we cry out  
for clarity beyond the clouds, for a touch  
of meaning when an extra bit is too much” 

and this let us resolve “we will overturn  
defeat into a lesson of love. We will burn  
ourselves in a passion seeking the rays  
of a fading life of more nights than days” 

so that, each thorny day, flowers are born anew  
children speak radiance that is bold and true  
winter unfolds spring, deep within our hearts  
in harmony we play our passionate parts 

amidst all the noise and nonsense let us flatter  
ourselves that the sun walks with us and we matter  
that the song which awakened us will spread  
some darkness unnamed won’t leave our souls dead

I remain quiet, am better heard  
I make sense when I am absurd  
I feel lighter when I cry  
Will I live longer when I die?

yes, my father would speak  but I, 
I only wanted not wanting to cry 
at all the gleam of all the toys 
that were shown off by those silly boys

And I’m sad, so very ashamed to say,  
I would but barely hear, then turn away

I speak to my son of many things 
about the worth of a soul that sings 
of light and of wonders that bring relief 
from aimless strife,  from pointless grief

but this is not how he cares  to live 
craving  more than I can ever can give 
wanting those same toys which never last 
almost  toys from memories long past 

And in the morning, he avoids my eyes 
At night I can hear his awful sighs

But I trust, I pray 
one day my son may 
speak so to his son  
without being turned away

something sweet as morning honey  
graced my soul, stirred fire  
a dove more beautiful than any  
flew up, then flew higher 

something gentle as morning light  
suffused my life, sparked my sighs  
with each breath now, comes the dawn  
comes the sacred from forever skies

a taste of fruit in lucid dreams 

and each stark hour uncluttered  
carrying but its own destiny  
offering me– breathless, speechless–  
a kaleidoscope of choices 

each claiming infinity’s grasp

but i call not any moment mine  
nor withered memories I clutch  
neither plan nor chart future joys  
each pulse but guides me to the next 

and gently i remain astonished

trembling cold the fear that night  
a sense of some deep wrong  
covered by cunning lies  
of grownups in a cruel grown world 

the cold seeped into the years  
with days passing slow and life  
warmed only by the heat  
of fading memories and tears