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All day, all night,
every day, every night,
I have relived in my heart and mind the last moment we touched-
the last time that we would see and touch one another-
the moment that every fiber of my being cried out in agony,
as tears started to form in my eyes,
and my heart felt as if it had been crushed.
The last second that we both held each-others gaze
felt so perfect, beautiful, natural-
it ended in an instant, but it seemed to last for days.
I never sought to find love from afar,
but over the years that seems to have become a recurring theme-
I have fell in love with beauty
that had crossed continents, oceans, and miles, so that I may know them,
and their beautiful face may follow me into my dreams.
This love felt different, somehow-
this love didn’t start out as love at first sight-
in the beginning we liked each other, smiled with one-another,
laughed at each-others jokes, but only as friends;
that was until we touched for the first time,
and I was struck by a truth that hit me faster than the speed of light.
We shared so much together- from the most brief and subtle of talks,
to the most amazing, heart-felt, enticing, beautiful, insights-
every time we spoke I felt as if we were conversing among the clouds,
and reaching out to each-other above the Earth
at new and energizing heights.
I will miss her so much.
When it did come time for us to say goodbye,
to look at each-other for the last time,
and for us to smile our last smiles to one-another,
it felt like my last day, my last second on Earth-
in my minds voice I told her that I loved her,
and that I would forever treasure the time that we spent together
and remember those moments fondly as the gifts that they are worth.
Today it finally hit me that I was never going to see her again,
and that the distance between us was going to be too much;
however, even now, she is still with me-
I can see her face, I can hear her voice,
I can feel her beautiful and delicate touch.
I miss you
The infinite photograph of memory
is one of the most important, one of the most amazing,
one of the most powerful gifts in all of creation-
to see the detail beyond the snap-shot of the instant,
to remember and to relive every vibration,
to again be able to go back and talk to a long-lost loved one or friend,
simply defies explanation.
It can be hard to hold a picture in your hand
and to see the face of someone who you cared about at a time of great joy-
someone who you knew your entire life,
or perhaps someone who had an entire life before you even knew them,
whose after-image not even death could destroy.
A photograph of someone who made an impact on the world,
and on all who knew them,
can stir-up so many feelings of loss, torment, and pain;
however, an infinite photograph-
an ever-sustaining, interactive, re-visitation zoetrope of the mind-
that exists on another plane,
can reunite parted hearts,
and keep alive a shared capture of light and life that will forever remain.
It is in our dreams that our infinite photography develops fully
and reveals its meaning and infinite depth-
in dreams a blind man can commune with sound and see it for all its richness;
in dreams every facet of everything is remembered and felt intensely
by those who are deaf.
Our eyes see more in a single second
than our perception would have us believe;
what we think we see,
and what every region of the hemispheres of our brain
actually save, contextualize, and connect,
would be too much for our waking mind to interpret, or believe.
Infinite photography came into being the instant
that the first life on Earth became fully conscious of their sentience-
at the moment when eyes opened wide
and let in the light and shadow of all that surrounds-
that was when clarity first shone,
and the world started to make sense.
By the time of our last blink
the lens’ of our eyes will have exposed an endless album of multi-coloured,
multi-textured, multi-sense, infused pictures
that we have been witness to every second of our life’s path-
a breath-taking mosaic of our own making,
that will be the indelible flash of our life’s infinite photograph.
Everything
When is an empty house not an empty house?
When it is filled with memories.
When you walk into a room
and the emotions, feelings, and love, for a moment in time
reform in your mind from every corner, like a scent on a breeze.
When is an empty house not an empty house?
When it is filled with music.
When the walls and the windows of your home
echo, reverberate, and bring to life the music of your mind and your heart
in time with every clock and accentuating every tick.
When is an empty house not an empty house?
When it is filled with light.
When the golden energy waves of the suns ocean
flood your home from every window and door;
or when a full-moon hovers above us
and welcomes in the change from day into night.
When is an empty house not an empty house?
When every step that we take up stairs, over floorboards,
into the recesses of our home, reminds us that it is alive,
moving, and talking to us all the time-
when even in an empty house we can feel an energy all around us,
as if stemming from an unseen dimension that exist to entwine.
When is an empty house not an empty house?
When you are in it.
When a house becomes your home,
and means more to you than a place that you choose to inhabit.
When is an empty house not an empty house?
When you stand in the living room of your home
and you say out-loud, but to no one in particular,
that this is the place you want to return to every night,
and perhaps may one day want to share with a spouse-
then you know, then you feel,
that this is not, that this has never been, that this will never be,
an empty house.
Home
Ten years ago, I literally watched people die right before my eyes
and I couldn’t do a thing about it, I couldn’t save them-
on September 11th, 2001,
I, like billions of people all around the world,
watched almost three-thousand lights be extinguished in an instant,
the like of which we will never see again.
I could not believe what I was seeing at first-
I could not put into words the horror that I felt, the horror that I saw-
and then when the World Trade Center began to fall
I just remember putting my right hand to my chest,
as if I were having a heart attack,
and thinking that the entire world had gone mad,
that the whole world was now at war.
I will never get over what I saw on that Tuesday afternoon;
I will never understand why someone, anyone,
would freely choose to impact the world in such a deplorable way;
I will never again look at the stunning New York City skyline
and not think of that day.
If I could I would carry a picture of everyone who died on September 11th-
in New York City, at the Pentagon, on Flight 11, on Flight 175, on Flight 77,
and those who lost their lives heroically on Flight 93-
if I could I would look at every face, every day,
and send them and their family my love, and the gift of my poetry.
To those who died on September 11th, 2001,
this poem is for you.
To those who carry the memory and relive that Tuesday
whenever they look at themselves in the mirror,
this poem is for you.
To those who observed, who were touched,
who will never forget September 11th, 2001-
this poem is for you.
This poem is for you
The pen is not the poet,
but the poet cannot be without the pen;
the poet can have all the inspiration and insight in the universe,
but without the means and the implements to express their creativity
their words know not where they are, nor when.
The pen with which a poet writes their poetry
is one of the most powerful agents
and perpetuators of expression ever invented;
with a pen at their fingertips a poet can wield words of power
and of silent articulation the cogency of which is unprecedented.
In the hands of an artist,
a pen is like a magicians magic wand, or the sceptre of an emperor, or a king-
in the hands of someone who can understand the language of order
within an alphabet of chaos
a pen can bring paper and ink to life and make them sing.
There is something wonderfully visceral to a writer
about actually writing the literal interpretation of their imaginings;
there is something incredibly profound about the weight of a pen in your hand,
and the balance and dexterousness that you have to bring.
There is a connection that develops over time
between a writer and his pen that may perplex the thoughts of an onlooker-
sometimes that connection is the only outlet a writer has
for his potent, poetic, imagination pressure cooker.
In the 21st Century you can write on a tablet, a phone, a computer,
on a blog, a wall, or in a good old-fashioned notepad, or a book, with a pen-
I have written poetry in every way, everywhere,
and without question or hesitation a pen and piece of paper
will forever be the source of inception of every one of my poems
again and again.
Even though I get a rush from writing poetry
with the elegance, refinement, and style of ink and pen,
I still keep in my mind and never forget
that I am the poet,
and that: le stylo ne fait pas le poete.
What can I say which has not already been said,
what more can I put into words about who I am, what I feel,
the muse that connects everything in life to everything in my head.
I never understood life, nor did I see the unlimited colours of the world,
until I truly fell in love for the first time-
I thought and I believed that I had been in love before,
but all that was eclipsed when I first saw my beautiful inspiration,
when I looked into her eyes, and wrote the first word of my first poem,
and she became the code for every rhyme.
I had seen beautiful things in my life,
I had been touched by emotion
the intensity of which could sustain anyone forever,
but when the sky and my mind opened to let in the light of eternity
so that it may change, inspire, and renew me,
I felt a part of me and the destiny of the universe
combine, exchange, and come together.
Every time I see my muse now the energy that surges through my body,
which radiates from my heart and creates new wonders of memory
and possibility for me to imagine, see, experience, and convey,
it’s almost too unbelievable and incredible for words,
but I know of no other purpose in life
that I would not want to relive every single day.
Because of my muse I fell in love over and over with words,
language, cultures, music, artists, peoples, planets, galaxies,
questions without answers, dreams without an end-
hope, happiness, a life without fear of the darkness of the night,
a place within each of us we can go to, and share with a friend.
My Muse for a time was all that I could think about,
all that I wanted to think about,
all and everyone who I would ever want in my life,
and the only one who could make me happy-
even now, when I see her smiling face portraying exquisitely
and perfectly her inner joy and the joy of all life,
I cannot get over her spirit-
which extends beyond awe, attractive, and classy.
Life evolves, but impressions of inspiration, creation, intervention,
proliferate and continue to inform and inspire generations to come,
because their truth is more vast
and more beautiful an ocean than the pacific.
My muse means more to me than words,
she is more to me than inspirational,
she is more to me than beautiful-
my muse is epic.
The Life, the Light, the Tears, of the Poet of the Sphere 