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.




each passing day

I gain…something  

step by step

Sometimes a word

Sometimes a thought

Some in pictures

Some forward

Others sideways

Still- I gain

Closer to my old self  

But- I must admit

Times do come forth

I stumble- blindly

Veer off course

Feeling as if I’m

Clinging to some night’s  

Crude razors edge

Terrified dawn will arise

Finding me absent  

From her full bloom

Touch- warm colors

But all I really am

Is left- adrift and unsaid

My grip sheared off

Sending rains to flush

Most of the tints away

And in monochrome

Clumps of cloudy thoughts

Linger, that-I’ve chosen

To abandoned her

For a new season already gone

When all I want

Is to be home

With someone, and…living love

Poet of the Light © 2018


Love for someone shouldn’t be

something free of all risk where one

can simply- turn off or sit down at will

to redact from their heart of past or

present; like a confidential file stored

away in some dark unemotional

compartment to make evading raw

emotions or a known truth less

possible to one’s unique soul. After all,

the soul has experienced it all anyways.

And loves reward should be…everything


Poet of the Light © 2018




Some lives were never meant to be

Some lives should never be lived

Her tinted windows told me stories

Her accented vocal tones couldn’t

Stories- her mind has long forgotten

Or recalls and still refuses releasing

But those eyes surely witnessed

They’re events locked up in her survival

I read excerpts from the tiny drops

That flowed unmistakable akin words

Horrific words of pain she evaded using

As if to spare her tender scarred lips

The way a mother covers a child’s face

Sparing an ugliness that always remains

Perhaps, she was sparing me as well

My mind, my heart and my novice ears

The sounds; unchecked vivid darkness

We all know dwells amongst humanity

The creases that surrounded her eyes

Also spoke in micro cues; silent language

If the subject was painful; they huddled

Fluently knowing, shielding for the impact

As she depicted passages of her life, time

Every ounce of my empathy, at her disposal

My drops, my trilling but failing utterance

As I tried to express my heart felt feelings

To bring me to life, nearly costing her-hers

I’m the miracle she bore… lived to bequeath


Poet of the Light © 2018