The geometry of joy
involves networks,
nodes of unequal gravity
connected by colorful bonds.
The geometry of joy involves pathways
where truth switches sides,
from top to bottom,
through repeating loops.
The geometry of joy—
you get to define its boundaries
or explode them
into superbly expanding universes.
The geometry of joy
involves networks,
with more and less important nodes
connected by colorful bonds.
The geometry of joy involves pathways
where truth switches sides,
from top to bottom,
while sliding smoothly into loops.
The geometry of joy—
you get to define it,
setting its boundaries
or exploding them
into superbly expanding universes.
She was looking for time
But whenever she glanced at her wrist
And what was wrapped around
All I she could see
Were Swarovski crystals
In shade of blue
Holding Pattern
These days arrive without edges,
a weather system stalled over the house.
Nothing breaks, nothing clears.
Even the clocks seem to hesitate
before committing to the next minute.
You move carefully,
as if carrying water in open hands—
meetings, messages, obligations
sloshing but not spilling,
because spilling would cost more
than you can afford.
There is a discipline to this kind of living:
to keep showing up without applause,
to choose steadiness over drama,
to accept that progress may look
like maintenance rather than motion.
Some nights you mistake exhaustion for failure.
But survival has its own quiet intelligence.
It knows when to pause,
when to narrow the field of vision
to the next necessary act.
If there is hope here,
it is not loud.
It sits beside you,
unremarkable and patient,
waiting for the day
when forward motion feels like movement again.
Until then,
breathe.
Hold the line.
This, too, counts as strength.
Becoming
Not the kind with announcements,
no ribbon, no clean before-and-after.
Becoming happens the way bone knits—
slowly, invisibly, under pressure.
You are not shedding a former self.
You are carrying her forward,
rearranging weight,
learning which burdens have become structural
and which can finally be set down.
Some days feel like standing in fog,
certain only of the next step.
But even fog has direction—
it moves, it thins, it obeys forces
you don’t have to name to trust.
Becoming is consent to unfinishedness.
To working without guarantees.
To choosing alignment over speed,
truth over comfort,
continuity over approval.
Look closely:
the patience you thought was delay
is actually form.
The restraint you mistook for fear
is calibration.
You are not late.
You are not stalled.
You are in the precise middle
where change is too deep to be visible
and too real to be undone.
This is what it looks like
when a life reorients—
quietly, deliberately,
becoming itself.
The kiss burns hotter in the cold
It thaws the dark ramifications of the frost
It blooms a pink carnation on the snow
So bring it on - I am afraid no more
Gold to rust and rush to still,
Title: Our Own Season (or alternate: “Where We Meet”)
[Verse 1]
I come from the South, where the sun always shines,
Olive-skinned children sing rough lullabies.
Even the stones hold the heat of the day,
And the sunset whispers, “it’s time to begin.”
[Verse 2]
You come from the North, where the winter is long,
Snow hushes the voice of the aurora’s song.
You wait in the dark, with a heart full of light,
Longing for stars that dance through the night.
[Chorus]
We meet in the middle, under sky-splitting flame,
When the moon steals the sun, or a meteor came.
We plant our small hopes at the edge of the road—
Berries that bloom in the cold.
Proof that we both still bleed warm.
Proof that we both still belong.
[Verse 3]
We carry the fire from our corners of earth,
Trade southern gold for your northern mirth.
The compass was wild, but it led us true—
To a season not born until me and you.
[Final Chorus / Outro]
We meet in the middle, where the strange things begin,
Not summer, not winter, not where we’ve been.
We go on together, like stars on the run—
Creating a season that’s never been sung.
I come from the South,
where olive-skinned children
sing with rough voices
their love for the sun—
where even the stones are warm,
and sunset signals beginning.
You come from the North,
where snow blankets the voice of the aurora,
whom you long to see
while you wait in the dark
through the long duration of winter.
We meet in the middle,
on the occasion of a celestial event—
an eclipse,
or beneath the thundering fear
of a fallen meteor.
We grow berries
at the edge of the road,
proof that still—
both of us carry warm blood.
And then,
we go on
to create our own season. whom you long to see
while you wait in the dark
through the long duration of winter.
We meet in the middle,
on the occasion of a celestial event—
an eclipse,
or beneath the thundering fear
of a fallen meteor.
We grow berries
at the edge of the road,
proof that still—
both of us carry warm blood.
And then,
we go on
to create our own season.
I wish you some magical mornings,
when you slip into the light of day,
unknowingly performing a ritual of healing,
as body and mind spring to new life.
You hear the birds,
as if for the very first time,
their song a hymn to your awakening.
And the weary world,
so often blunt and gray,
pauses to wonder:
Where has this beauty been?
And oh, how glad we are
to see you—
reborn into this day.
Lemons and mulberries,
a little acid to elevate
a taste for the sweet—
to remind you
that joy sometimes arrives with a sting.
The perspective you earn
from climbing trees—
beyond scraped elbows and bloodied knees—
is the raw view of courage
and the sky pressed close.
There’s a price in sharing fruit
with a friend:
a piece of yourself
passed palm to palm,
always an open hand.
To many blows have made a hole
The wound where all the blood
Of poetry poured out
Onto the ground
Drained she waits
For desert winds
To dry the tears
Into salty grains
Of rolling sand
Her body wrinkles
And contorts just like
A tortured scream
Into the night
The moons takes
Pity the man and turns her
Into the only tree
That can survive this moral desert
And she reaches out
An olive branch
Sometimes you get a very personal blow
To the stomach
And your are expected to recover and even
Get better
Because they say whatever does not kill,,,
But does it heal?
And what about those football kids who got
Too many blows
What ever happened to their heads
Ministers
Please pray for our souls and keep our dreams
Alive
If you continue to add
Lively colors into my days
I will write poems
For your paintings
And will run to find
A singer in the street
To add his music
In the lower left
Corner
The one that hangs loose
And ready to flow
Out of the frame
With grace
Though a dance .
This way
The arts will stay
With us
In the same room,
Will day?
I have broken 1000 times
In a million pieces
And all it took was you
to swirl by
in your form of light
From the north
To build me back
Like a column
Piercing the sky
The colder I get
The more fragile
Can you stay
Long enough
To make me green
Suple and soft
And ready for spring
For I have been long
hungered for light
November’s ending
But It sent a beaver moon
To get us out
With promises of light
It’s gotten cold and dark
And we are out with flashlights
Looking for ourselves
When maybe we should
only hope to find
Connections
To each other
Things should come in pairs
Like shoes
For symmetry reasons
And Redundancy
In case the left foot loses
Optimism
The right can kick things up
Powering through
Realms of quite silences
Or dips of energy
With the minimum
Required energy flow
Until restoration
Of full power and joy.
Writing with friends
If your own pen is undecided
Helps smooth the trajectory
On the floor of the ballroom
The words align
Sing to themselves
Sooth the listener
Dance in tandem.
Adversity can crash the spirit
not even words come out
and when they do
they walk with a limp.
But if they manage
to cross the long road
from me to you
why would you
not take them
and wrap them
with care
for me
because
they may be
the only gift
all year
I look around and I see
Small people trying to fill big shoes
Big people trying to fit into small shoes
The pain of adjusting to circumstances
That never change fast enough
Except for the few perfect ones
The ones that slip into molds
Silvery sisters and brothers
Of all the common
Cinderellas I deeply respect
And never expect to see wearing
Shiny, but merely comfortably
Their loving Souls .
