Lying so often to ourselves, they become truth

We revolve like sun and moon, seeking eclipse

Fearfully following societal flawed constraints

You’ve save yourself from hurtful heartbreak

For having never dared a moment on…our love

Poet of the Light © 2019





By divine extinguishment of my fragile mortality,

My immortal legacy will be truly born- pure.

One that keeps me well; alive posthumously.

As such, by my own volition what I bequeath,

Is me residing eternity- in my breaths of…poetry


Poet of the Light © 2018






The Half-Finished heaven

(c) Tomas Transtromer

Despondency breaks off its course.
Anguish breaks off its course.
The vulture breaks off its flight.

The eager light streams out,
even the ghosts take a draught.

And our paintings see daylight,
our red beasts of the ice-age studios.

Everything begins to look around.
We walk in the sun in hundreds.

Each man is a half-open door
leading to a room for everyone.

The endless ground under us.

The water is shining among the trees.

The lake is a window into the earth.


My personal take when I first read this poem to me was; I think in one aspect it serves to tell us that despondency is like water; where it fills and feels at home within the vessel that holds it so closely guarded. Perhaps in part because despondency may well be for some of us, the last of our feelings we can still manage to feel within the eye of a storm we alone have become and out of an earnest love, we refuse to share it.


At times and out of the blue

It’s as if she cuts a swathe

Clearly through to my soul

My attention; split wide open

Her scent, her voiced whispers

Her fashionable teasing eyes

Touch and permeate all I am 

And even at inappropriate times

I’m stripped of nearly all modesty

Envisioning our bare bodies at play

I turn red, caught in a sinful smile

My eyes held closed in visual luxury 

Droplets creep on my skins surface

Wiping fantasy lipstick from my lips 

Sure, others around have noticed

Hoping I do the same to her…any moment

Poet of the Light © 2018


For others-

She was perceived an enigma

They even further thought

She should be shunned

Everyone saw she was different 

Most fear the queer unknowns 

Seldom being attentive

To anything not their preference

Or not under their control

But for me-

She was divine beauty- truly  

Wildly and yet most refrained

Being reveled in glimpses

Like rare sparkles of a diamonds 

When prismatic sunlight cascades

And I- admired her from afar

Sometimes getting lost in awe

Ignoring even time as it ticked on

She taught me about art

In my many of mini-lessons

The pristine kind seen in motion

And caught only by perchance 

Life gifts in mere micro-seconds

And fewer human minds

Acknowledge so instantaneously

Retain and relish indefinitely

She- like a muse inspired poetry  

Colorful words that seemingly

And esoterically came out of no where

Appearing on sheets, white lien, inked

She had that effortless affect

If for no one else, certainly for me

She’ll always be present in my presence

And I suspect long after my departure  

I could be wrong, in bias preference 

Thinking we shared a connection- love 

Unseen or heard yet felt, deep within

She changed me for the betterment

Innately for me I’ll permanently feel 

As if she existed- just to touch…my soul

Poet of the Light © 2018

In their shadow (excerpt-10)

…y life became an immutable haze, a rolling state of convoluted pictures, thoughts, conversations I wished I lost. My true compass shattered-and no direction seemed familiar. Loneliness took on a whole new definition. I was barely perfunctory in its most least of meanings. Often depicted as a dull robot with a heartbeat, which queerly at times became most erratic. I was on that yellow brick road turning blood red and no clue as to where Oz moved to. I never felt more out of place while simultaneously feeling out of body, but this was such a time. Being broken with a barely conscious motherboard that has an over-active mindset yet disconnected from all peripherals. New information was unattainable,and all internal files corrupted or at the very least irretrievable- at least by me.   

     My purpose in life and even to myself- voided. Akin some unexpected warranty that expired early because I simply ignored the fine print of care. I had no true sense of who I was. Life environment and an indoctrination by others was stirring my life’s pathway, my choices. Making other feel good became not only my motivation but my instinctual duty. I don’t mean to imply I should’ve been more self-absorbed but obviously more self-aware, of who- myself was, and what I wanted void of influence.I was misled by the advantageous to benefit the advantageous. Now I find myself steeping in carnage of foreign territory I never desired or expected to visit.The hellish version of precipitously falling to the bottom and no accidental trees growing out to grasp onto and end my decent. I seem at a loss to plot a plan of movement, simply reacting like a cog to everything already in the daily tick-tock’s of time running away. At this point, mermaids held a better chance of finding OZ for some storybook resolve.

     Hurt and anger I felt interchanged like bipolar personalities that seems to have hidden behind a mask of self-doubt and unwarranted arrogance’s. Then to make matters worse,relished in its role like an addict hooked on guilt. Not the guilt of having done wrong but guilt of having become wronged. Often, I wanted to lash out at others,let them, no- make them feel my unrelenting pain in some malignant attempt of seeking comfort- even pity, just to feel anything that wasn’t me. Something inside myself seemed it more noble not to share such pain with others, not become some victimizer. Maybe my goal was to hurt them, so I could have a crowd to join;a tribe even if formed by my own actions. Foolishly one of my motives became to seek relief from reality in short term and unproductive manners. Getting drunk,taking irrational risk to get attention anything that distract realness and make me seem more phlegmatic. Perhaps, and I’m just spit-balling this; perhaps unconsciously I also feared life uncovered the real me, this new indifferent version that my upbringing taught me to hide, perhaps I was becoming…my father? Oh, how I gone to such great lengths since my childhood to avoid emulating him, superimposing myself onto his destructive image. My grey life just felt even colder, darker,less hopeful. I was the product of a long-standing war that has been passed down like some ungodly tradition. A war of corrupt unspokenness behind closed doors, treated like treasured secrets we were slowly inheriting unwittingly from self-absorbed rulers.

     Perhaps I’ve come to that place in my life; a lull, where I can be openly honest rather than abundant with a plethora of clichés to spew out. I’ll refuse to accept the label of being a “survivor” as if was something of value to embrace after having been violated because in the end…all of us will be anything but perfected survivors.This “survivor-ship” in my mind is a term the cults like the law, medical and psychology ilks use to depersonalize us in an imaginary triage band-aid customarily made permanent for infirm people; like a wooden leg filed with their renewed emotions; to pretend openly to the world they are re-perfect again, akin new virgins or the more abused phrase: “reborn”. Only abusers would dare act like pushers and pimps by prattling such nonsense, and for no-less profit of some sorts. Everyone above the third grade knows better except those who buy into it to avoid reality or be perceived as “less-than”. The intellectual dishonesty that plagues our society is wrought with capitalist without a conscious. They became so damaged that they seek revenge through a monetary power at their fingertips like superheroes to right the wrongs of their past at the cost of mis-believing they have the right now to wrong others. I feel I’m caught within the eye of one of those life changing storms- here, and I’m uncertain what or who I’ll become or if I’ll even survive this storm, let alone want to be there, where-ever this current is seemingly dredging me along to- become. At least Dorothy had Toto. 

Poet of the Light © 2018