colors and sparks

her eyes were changing

drinking deep love’s

endless sky and sea




do i still believe

my life will be glorious

as when i was young

looking out to my self




The vulnerable honesty of a poem connects the souls of its creator and reader. It thus forms an essential tool of emotional communication.




stuck in caged morasses

makes hard to sing of flying

then again it’s all some have




i write my best

but then i rest

most of your loveliness

cannot be spoken




dream of a byzantine city

shared lights and delights

of long-faded beings

leaving them mornings

i too share their death




none of the angels wore wingtips




grownups displaying

directness like children

banned from societies’ make-believe




where are the forests

where fairies danced

or at least our imaginations




when the heart sings

all the earth rings




i write my poetry at night

with nobody listening but i




don’t tell me this is our song

because we’ll get sick of it some day




Consciousness is a neural network’s awareness of separateness from observations.




good poetry is a stirring

to the wind chimes of our minds




the poem proved

a bridge too far

he fell through a ceiling

while reaching its star




in musical landscapes

of wallpaper patterns

it’s almost a relief to hit our shin

on an ankle biting coffee table




he wants to go back

to hearing the music

that years ago stopped

playing in his heart




in wayward dreams

she is still with him

doing the things

she left him for




she doesn’t understand

my music

too loud

too weird

too everything




the leaves were this color

that you would not know

since you only look at them fallen




we think that we know how to live

because we watch it on the screen

we just don’t get around to it

because we watch it on the screen




what if machine guns

sang happy tunes

instead of screaming





the smell of

undead fish and sun

clean sand

washed every fifteen seconds




he wondered how sun

would taste on his tongue

or rains felt in his veins

if toes were roots

and fingers were leaves

and life and nature were one




A good song for me starts with words and their meanings - to which I then give more aural expression.




i know all is one but i am not done

paddling hard to get in the flow

that’s what i need to focus on




his life’s goal was

to manifest love

so when he died

it would still carry on




you are if i go

that’s all i want

because i’ll be in your mind




guitars won’t sing

without strings attached

hearts in a fling

are in a way matched

carrying reverberations




listening to cuts

of many years back

embedded they open again




i often think

where mankind would be

if no one were willing

to fight one another




your folds unfold

to let me dream on steel

i know now bed

why you have rolls

but not a steering wheel




how can i not sing

of my love for her

and live it every day

she makes me

so much better a man

than ever i hoped to pray




the moon made me rise

and want to be wise

about our life and love




some day we’ll sing

to different moons and suns

entrusting them with similar wants




he never knew

whether falling silent

or jumping right in

was what beauty called for




few feelings as raw

as a plugged-in guitar

to play with her tension

share screaming attack

feeding back

to the hair on my neck




my heart cannot read

it just looks at pictures




my poems come with pictures

but i try to build them

in readers’ minds




la lune est le fond

d’une bougie allumée


the moon is the bottom

of a lit candle




To me, Beethoven is the father of rock. His is the first music that aspires to and benefits from being played on “eleven.”




spare me the drama

he thought in the theater

i’m merely here to be seen




blameless you are

for craving escape

fairy tale dreams

and visions of beauty

yet soon return

and face the ugly

lest you be eaten by life




poetry is a dance of words

dance poetry without them




not all poetry

is spun gold

some is more

like string cheese




Before one can write worthwhile poetry, one must understand the difference between imagination and pretense.




some guitars

resemble women

this one’s a blonde

in tight black leather pants




In poetry, we must resist the temptation to assume that mellifluous words equal truth.




dreaming her say

i’ll be there

when you need me

i cannot wait

to wake knowing that




you follow my fingers

play the baby grand

what i play next

is in your mind and hand



Drawing in black ink of an open daisy flower facing the viewer. The daisy is the symbol of the Philosophy of Happiness book.



Blue and black title plus stylized, 8-pronged white star with a blue rhombus in each tip and separate rhombi on grey background.