My Voice Is Trapped

My voice is trapped

at the edge of my throat

where thoughts are formed

into words and released out

to the world but your accusations

surprise me and supress sounds

not out of fear or hurt but of patience

they say you can’t take back what you say

so I will let my sayings sit on my tongue for awhile

I don’t know whether they will ever come out or be

replaced with other language that may assuage you.

Edge of Time

I stand at the edge, still

time crawling across the sky

breeze brushing memories

through winter sunshine

 

I’ve stood at the edge before

and took steps into the future

that plunged me into more

 

I felt your smiles

even from across the miles

your loneliness in your

distant voice

 

Our hearts united

from pasts once shared

and hope that we

will see each other again

 

At the edge of a new year,

I’ll stand still

facing time

with hope

that we will

share more time.

Haunted Houses

Inspired by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “Haunted Houses”

In and out we leave and live these spaces
that once was filled with other people’s traces
tiny remnants of dust and scratches revealed
upon closer inspection of things concealed
or that sixth sense that creeps during dark hours
when we first arrive and this space is not yet ours

But our dreams and hopes start filling the rooms
and things that are dear to us consume
the walls, the corners, from floor to ceiling
a place to call home that starts the healing
And although we hope this new place is a fresh start
Past hurts and lives are still trapped in our hearts.

Haunted Houses by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o’er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,—

So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

Shuffle, click, sign
Start at 9 and
ruffle, draft, send,
break at noon and
repeat again
end at 5
do-si-do to
the 9-to-5 dance

I tap these black keys
burning holes into your eyes
and hope you’ll feel
the warmth of my words

Each brick a strong hold
that keeps things out
protected inside
but lock outside
the hurt, the love
cannot penetrate
this wall that’s
been built
brick by brick
the cracks
get wider
as tears
fall down
and seeps
between
tight seals
that hold
the life
that strives
to live
there is
no freedom
behind this wall
protection
keeps me
hidden
from the love
the hurt
that grabs
my heart
and makes it
grow
but oh
how hard
to break this
wall
each brick
the strength
built
from the pain
the love
and behind
it all
the fear

The Blessing That Came True by: Donald Green, NY Times Published Poet

The Blessing That Came True

The Truth About the Present by John Lane

after Bei Dao

when rivers are intoxicated
with dioxide you gather lotus shoots
to pick their pockets is
the clock of the age

when the last songbird
shivers with undue cold like wires overhead
to handle harsh metals is
the clock of the age

when your keyboard dissolves
in the pit of nations
to write in echoes is
the clock of the age

when you forge transparencies
in the foundries upstream
the bridges are blocked by karaoke
their digital sand is
the clock of the age

the cell phone’s face is always
time-dependent on fingers somewhere
today opens to the nearby delta
and tomorrow
is the clock of the age

In the dark of night
Two stars collided into
The brightest lightness…