Photo by John Noonan

Unlike many, I don’t enjoy the rain. 

Thank You!

“What do birds say?”

Rain is showering the soil;
big moment for the gigantic soul
of planet Earth,
to chill, contemplate and drink.

What do birds say
to the crying heavens,
with their soaking feathers
flapping in the air.

What do the predators say,
patrolling boundaries of the realm,
paws slapping puddles on the surface,
searching for the borders now erased.

I become mute and locked,
don’t pray in the rain,
don’t sing in the shower, really,
only simple flute
playing a somber tune,
at the edges of my soul,
past the dunes and snow,
where the sun hits different
following the storm.


Photo by Taya Iv

Thank You!

“In truth, is you that’ll save me.”

Stood there in the corner
like some forgotten roman sculpture,
a relic reproduced, now stands collecting dust;
became a network for the spiders,
sending data to each other
down the sticky ropes
between the steel strings.

I hold
and place you gently on my lap,
wiping off the sheet of dust,
destroying links
of the networking insect hackers,
like some anti-virus for the system as a whole.

I’ve been chosen by the gods
to swallow and to turn,
the key to your cell door,
damp halls of catacombs
echoing the splashing water
underneath my soaked boot,
as I travel down the lanes
of your wooden skin.

In truth, is you that’ll save me,
like a wooden galley, you will be the transport
most suitable of all, as I take my troops and goods,
between the shores of pleasure belonging in the chest
and realms of the bliss belonging to the soul.

Your language – music,
a hollow gap in my tongue
but the linguistic mind can whisper tips and secrets
to the tips of my fingers while I press your strings.

It feels like a unified dance
between nature and a man,
together looking in the distance,
greeting shores approaching
everybody on the deck of galley,
where the muscle needed for the oar
but also a breath of wind against the sail,
whistling familiar tune.


The expanse of life is mesmerizing, but things like that are never enough. They are covering the street lights of the path, tricking travelers astray.

Thank You!

“Freedom is intoxicating.”

Strange to feel
the inner peace and constant love,
to feel reborn, rebuilt machine,
still missing screws,
but still…

Yearned this feeling
very much,
so many times
throughout the breaths of time.

Now, out of nowhere,
gone the need to fight external forces,
blocking the path dimly lighten by fate.

Now the fight begins within the kingdom,
time to pass new laws,
get rid of remnants of dust
stuck to the hands, and build;
through sweat, and burning pulsating pain,
yet build the blurry image in the mind.
It’s always shifting,
changing and evolving, growing,
like a sapling in the field.

Freedom is intoxicating
for released prisoners of war, state, religion maybe.

The expanse that’s unexplored,
calling anyone, who can donate the ear,
to listen, understand, and fantasize the story
hidden from the world.

So prisoners released,
go out and fly, explore
the expanse of life,
all its cracks, voids, and mute empty spaces
visited by wind only in the night.

Hooked on the idea of life,
without the barriers made
of mind and metal;
released lose the direction
to the kingdom that’s inside.

Like a forgotten tourist,
stomach full of freedom, food,
and the fresh morning air,
but feeling hungry, hopeless,
and always cold.

Assuming presidency is never easy,
particularly difficult to command yourself,
when there are so many possibilities of corruption,
just give it a call,
it’s by the door, waiting,
to take you to the famed expanse,
threatening to leave you there.


Back and forward.

Thank You!

“Ironically can’t live without the rules of the system.”

At times he feels elated
eyes translate emotion
with humor, positivity,
a drop of naivety seen in children;
trusting, smiling,
living in utopia
of tomorrow’s day.

Then come the days
of greyness, rain, and thunder,
when eyes are only focused on the mud, stuck
between the fingernails of the passer-by.

Within his mind
he bleached those nails,
now fingers tangling around his neck,
with spirits gliding in between,
spilling alcohol for free, on fire,
further burning each exhale.

Sweat dripping down his neck,
as he cuts the chains of the system,
built centuries before his grandad’s virgin breath.

Ironically can’t live without the rules of the system,
missing that authoritarian marrow in the bone,
even for his own reflection
through the mirror of the mind.

So he breaks the chains
and flies around a little bit,
before stretching hands
to feels the cuffs again.


Photo by Ray Hennessy

A little different today.

Thank You!

“We look inside and see a simple office.”

Little canary lying
on the surface of the branch
scratching back with a yellow wing,
couch potato, watching TV, eating seeds.

When the sun is shining through the window,
canary can see the screen with crisp perfection,
no hindrance, unstaged drama, a panorama of the day;
if you may, sit down on near branch above the lazy bird,
and unsolve together, a timeless dilemma, detective of the mind,
despite the preference of loving drama, comedy, and forbidden sites;
birds also have their needs, you see.

We look inside and see a simple office,
the one that makes you sick,
from bland grey walls, and tasteless carpets,
lights that burn the eyes, if you look at them too long.

Is this what bird has traded trees and skies,
and glowing Northern lights for?

We notice movement in the window,
a woman, aged forty maybe less,
going through the stack of papers,
on her chameleon table,
blended with the walls,
now grey like paint in fabric,
a couple of miles down the coast.

An interesting reflection of the sun
through the lens of golden glasses on her nose,
transported through another layer of the glass,
back on us, we are part of a little theme park,
for the distant rays of the sun.

She found the document she needed,
smiling, almost whistling,
prefers to scream internally with joy,
as she folds and turns the document,
into the tiny looking packet for a pill;
canary enjoys the aesthetic of the size,
instinct move of the leg, towards the pack of seeds,
bird offering you some, but I’d decline, don’t start the new pandemic.

She wants to escape from the walls,
and contained electric flames above the head,
last document she needed,
close and will not be lost,
in the size of a giant pearl
envisioned by her love.

The ticket printed yesterday,
at work, before the moment
she actually decided to fly,
on the black and shiny falcon wings.

Destination – paradise,
painted in her mind,
together with a fellow younger,
so much brighter than those clercs
and management department people,
that she sees together with a day.

Today he spoke to her online,
can’t wait to meet her for the first time,
but lives with parents still, always tired,
never looking for a job,
but wishes, just as her, to fly together in the distance,
somewhere on the shores around the Pacific waters,
quiet from the lack of people and the lies.


Photo by Devin Avery

Thank You!

“A deal conducted by the parties.”

Matches lined up in the box
like sardines, soldiers, or marines,
on the line of fire
ready to ignite and shine.

Patches on the surface of the skin
covering the holes and stitches,
lining silver, time expanding,
preaching of the cold and winter trees.

A deal conducted by the parties,
a little shout, a little dance,
an empty bucket on the ground laying vacant,
paint applied on frozen skin,
was a paste but now a set of scales,
over frozen, crying skin.

Sacrifice is made,
oxygen is split divided,
on the altar in the sky,
smoke is reaching further upward,
to the edge of the blue and black
with pretty planets, stars.

Snow is melting
in the line of fire, clearly;
covered, sleeping soil
awoken by the flaming dance,
it smiles, tricked to think the summer has arrived
but clothes have been removed,
time to join the dance
and look beyond the frozen fingers of the hand.


Painting by Steve Johnson

With all its mystery, the night is definitely the best time for me to write.

Thank You!

“Hendrix jamming through the speaker.”

Night and I
are sharing wine,
playing with the feelings
of one another.

Hendrix jamming through the speaker
in the corner of the room, music took him
to the future, or future shaped through his music,
or music and future walk together,
holding hands, passing age, and cutting time.

It’s only me and metal pipes,
looking at the stars, in the state
of permanent insomnia, sipping artificial juices,
tired muscles lost the ability to smile,
while eyes are begging for a ticket to the latest movie.

Frozen mummy, trapped on endless duty,
walking in circles on patrol, guarding tubes and pipes,
random slime and whisper of the night.

Yellow rust and crazed bats,
don’t worry about the safety of your regime,
I’m here to guard your sleep and meal,
as you watch me drawing shoe lines
on the sticky, sandy surface.

The Voice.

Photo by Tom Barrett 

Rainy weather brings a rainy poem with it.

Thank You!

“Voice is hiding with the forest creatures.”

Confused precautions
building barriers
around the walls,
spilling light-weight words
through the snoopy voice
that’s gone, alone,
in search of destiny beyond.

It passes peaks and creeks,
lost its bearing in the cloud,
absent power in the water,
a portal to the void, a moist dimension
with different rules of nature.

Continues journey
through the valley past the yellow field,
streaming through the empty halls
of the old abandoned tower,
playing with the echo,
bouncing off the walls.

Voice is lost but also not,
doesn’t have a home,
escaping throne of lies
in the cloudy checkered passing skies,
drinking waterfall of golden rays.

At night,
when water soaking all the life alive,
and wind wrestling with anything it sees;
voice is hiding with the forest creatures
in the hollow of the tree, peeking,
struggling to see the candy sunshine,
seen by day calmly piercing through
the grey clouds – tiny magnets
on the expansive turquoise fridge.

Voice will travel all the span of ticking life,
sharing song with the whistle of the wind,
gifting hope to the crafty forest creatures,
that the trunk, old-fashioned cabinet, or office
will stand, regaining energy and might,
through the intimate, rewarding,
blessing of the Sun.

Bitter Liquid.

Photo by Vino Li 

It’s really hard to apologize and particularly difficult to say sorry, knowing you are right.

Because of this difficulty, only strong can slide their swords back into the scabbard, to go on building, singing to the night and drinking splendid mead.

Thank You!

“The language of emotion is the most difficult to master.”

Apologetic letter,
raining words and singing songs
of truce, forgiveness,
symbol lost its meaning
in the pool of bitter tears.

Let us taste this fluid
together, unified as one;
I’ll be the lips
and you the tongue,
toying with the liquid,
like it’s enemy captured,
waiting for the disposal
to the pit of hungry snakes.

Flavor – transportation,
to the peak of the mighty cliff,
where mountain juice produced;
smelted by the power
of thunder, rain,
wind and glowing snow
in velvet cosmic tone.

The language of emotion
is the most difficult to master,
encompasses the play of hands,
the beat of heart and sparkle in the eye.

Hard to construct the guillotine
and sign the execution order for oneself,
to tie up the hose around the neck,
for something much more
magnificent, exquisite,
in the distance building cities,
expressing art – the human might of peace,
you hear?

Polar Bear.

Photo by Lucas Marcomini 

The ceiling is really endless for this bear. Thankfully I haven’t seen any seals there yet…

Thank You!

“Traveling the empty frozen plains.”

The eyes are on the journey
through the flat and empty desert
filled with cracks and holes;
it’s rough and solid,
white and cold
ceiling, held by corners
of the four-bedroom walls.

Muscle, bones,
like the puddle of honey
from the ancient wooden keg,
broken into by the hungry bear.

Polar beast
traveling the empty frozen plains,
and the sky is just one
hyper-crisp and perfect,
inter-dimensional projection screen,
sharing secrets held
by the confidants named walls.

Sky paints fresco
of a different life and love,
where hunting sacrificed
for stability and pill for an empty stomach,
where shelter turned,
became the portable universe
through the outlet on the warden wall.

On cold and lonely nights,
bear finds the precious patience
in the glowing aurora of the sky;
colors changing one another,
a neon chain around the wall-custodian.

Bear inspired
by the passion of the dark,
rays of energy warming frozen plains,
growing saplings and bringing life
it’s silver shiny meaning, speaking to each other
through the waves of starry sound, aloud.

As night gives way
to the brightness of the day
a bear walks the miles,
sliding down the tiny peaks,
hunting fish and seals;
breathing life through the clear nostrils
and entering the state of drunk psychosis,
source of the adrenaline in life.

Bear wouldn’t trade this cherished freedom,
for the protection of the walls,
there is a whole ceiling to explore,
too many places need the marking
on the map located in the mind.