Poetry

  The iron gates of logic swing wide and rust away, As the mind unspools its heavy thread into the light of day. A sudden breath— a tangible release —where thought becomes a wing, And in this hollowed, quiet space, the vibrant colors sing. The Fusion of Light and Loam The sky descends in ribbons of pulsating violet and gold , No longer distant, but a fabric for the fingers to hold. Through the art of illusion, the spectrum begins to bleed, Sowing neon luminescence into the humble, earthly seed. The oak tree wears a crown of fire, yet its roots remain in clay, As electric indigo vines through the forest floor find their way. The Sound: A low, thrumming hum, like the earth’s own steady heart. The Sight: Emerald moss glowing with the heat of a dying star. The Sensation: The smell of rain-drenched soil meeting the scent of ozone. The Great Intertwining Here, the solid bark dissolves into a melody of sight, A rare look at the fusion where the morning meets the night. Petals of crims...

 The glass is cold against my palm, A transparent wall between the now and then. Outside, the garden wears a silver calm, But I am looking through it, seeking when. I see a girl in a cotton dress, Chasing the ghosts of the summer sun, Her laughter caught in a wilder tress Before the slowing of the years  had begun. The maple tree was just a sapling then, Its branches reach for a sky of blue, I held a secret and a graphite pen, And sketched the world as if it all were new. The ghost of my ace, etched with time. The streetlights hum a hollow tune. The shadow of the swing set under the moon. The streetlamp flickers, casting long-gone corners  where I used to wait and dream. The shadows stretch and pull into the night, Like stitches coming loose at every seam. I see the porch light burning for a ghost, The door left unlatched for a younger self, The things I loved—and the things I lost— Now dusty trophies on a mental shelf. The condensation blurs the edges now, The garden fad...