Wild poetry..

Pulitzer prize winner Stanley Kunitz once told, “You must be careful not to deprive the poem of its wild origin.” I agree that it is born wild and free, no matter how it is born, and by what means! A poem forms in the sea of my heart An ocean of colors for this sacred … Read moreWild poetry..

Playing with words..

playing with words, I write past witching hour tonight with the bright moonlight; rules come, give me a fright, no muse, yet another plight, I give in, turn off the lights; muse has no time that’s right, a sudden thought set alight, an idea now burning bright, so with rules I must fight; so back … Read morePlaying with words..

Completing life..

How can I put a word, to what excites my muse? For what inspires me, might be to her, a ruse. With each tear of pain, she writes but of hope; she writes but a future, how with pain, to cope. With each smile of joy, she writes of its cause, when inspiration sings, I … Read moreCompleting life..

Writing hour

tick-tock, tick-tock, the clock still knocks, on the window of my eyes. rules, my mother says: “six hours of sleep, that you must keep; switch off the PC now, go to bed,” with love; I start counting sheep. but midnight, midnight, that’s writing hour; along comes a thought, yes, I love it a lot, and … Read moreWriting hour

How it all began

an empty book in my hand, an empty mind and my heart, I sat once, unknowing of how to say what I felt. knew not why I felt a void, felt unease even to speak; knew not a soul would listen, only pretend to understand. heart knew not how to lie, words had to escape, … Read moreHow it all began