“A Cherished Life” The Sunday Whirl #170

There’s always a light surrounding me,
a shimmer of life which I receive
with passion and pleasure.
A magic that resides in living
through this beautiful hum.

While passing a stranger on
a narrow walkway. We smile
saying hello, thriving within different
special spaces. Each our own
yet somehow we are one.

I’m thankful for every breath I’m given,
for the sunrise I’m gifted with.
Words spoken to me
by family and friends — reassuring,
this is mine and I cherish it.

“A Beautiful Light” The Sunday Whirl #169

If you touch another person’s hand
and your heart explodes eclipsing
into a million stars. Take heed:
they’re part of you

They are the sun upon you when
first waking and the rain that cools
and quenches your face and throat.

If you look in a friend’s eyes
and feel their pain. Take heed:
they need your love, give them honesty
and hold them tight

They are the wind on your skin while
walking alone down the street,
and the enveloping dreams of night.

In the shadowy hallways of life
exists a beautiful light meant to be honoured.
Hold on to this, like today’s kiss on the cheek.

A Glow and A Dream #167 The Sunday Whirl

I approach doorways in dreams,
but they never open, because keys
crumble in my hand.

I’m a grain so misunderstood,
in single lines on a hard surface,
where my love levels out confusion’s sand
and I scratch at the sad unknown.

When glints recover me and
I attach myself to the now
as you would want me to.
I am a sketch between the gaps,
in a transforming phase, so I
may be present for me and those I love.

“Rainbows and Stars” The Sunday Whirl #166

Drawing rainbows, the tarot’s dreadful tune
plays its cards, counting coloured dreams
brought forth through times of sorrow.
There are unicorns and steep stairs
to the other side of tomorrow.

I am seduced by these stars,
levitating above me, as if
wanting to kiss me on the cheek.
Oh creator’s night, may I dance beneath you?

Overlooking this city I have come to love.
I twirl and bow; thinking of you,
your smile and heart that once was so close to mine.
Counting toward my penny-tone morning
´til my plague is lifted.

“I Taste Every Raindrop” The Sunday Whirl #165

Daytime brings porcelain,
out of my back pocket
comes fortune.

You tell me:
Read a good book,
drink a nice coffee,
eat the cake slowly.
Life is now.

“Blue and Silver Fish Jumping Across the River” The Sunday Whirl #164

I am flattered by friendly hellos and simple words
about the weather, while I listen to bells that aren’t
as broken as my smile, I am searching for me,
but it’s like asking for directions at an abandoned gas station.
My empty heart moves along.

When darkness comes; I’m surrounded
by blue and silver fish swimming in single files.
You show me bees and butterflies
that once lived amongst the sunflowers in our garden,
while my muffled voice speaks a silent
language — can you hear me?
Between the sheets I feel for a safe
place to sleep as I count the number of
days that have passed by — can you see me?

I cry,
I breathe,
I try to fit into my skinned existence.
Can I ever say goodbye to you?

“She Prays for Him” The Sunday Whirl #163

He can’t live with the way she prays,
believing the words are lies
fluid, clear and countless
like lean kitchenware caught
in tight spaces. He suffocates.
Standing sturdy,
in the morning she drinks tea.
The scent of rosemary and spice
filling the room with her solace,
reading parables or writing quotes to carry
her through the day.
When the asphalt paving is too hot,
and the sun attacks the terrain’s love of living.
She awaits afternoon rain.
While hoping those prayers
will reach him wherever he is;
roaming across prairies,
climbing mountains,
or resting in an adobe hut.

“Misguided Sympathy” OpenLinkNight

With false sympathy,
you drip on my mind like a plague.
Your bitterness shows through
with unhidden hindrance,
disguised as honey,
it is sticky and unyielding.
I wipe away the filth
you tried to touch me with.
Such sweetness exists in your fantasies.
Not mine.

“Pigeons and Traffic Lights” The Sunday Whirl #162


I survey his face, carrying fruit
for sale, he weaves between the cars,
I wonder if his life’s stuck in silence, or
does laughter make his eyes shine
like mine on days with friends,
when dreary skies have fallen to meet my ankles.


I laugh when I see flutters of life,
and notice I am not alone,
two men alongside me are
witnessing nature’s mating season.
The north wind lessens and the sun
rises in my bones to fill my emptiness,
I need to remember this and keep it with me — forever.


Roses die and petals drift,
A fledgling is born in the building’s rafter.
Keeping the cycle open,
So I may recognize the wonders that exist.
Leaving the past as a memory to be
cherished and loved.

“Lost Hands” The Sunday Whirl #161

His alabaster hands rise toward mine.
Are there any real people left he asks?
I have no answer for him, I only
know they don’t live on my street.

This graphic place has become my disaster,
The altitude brings me chills in his mourning
amongst the chaos in my cacti and agave garden.

I can’t see the plastic consumed landfill from
here, but sense its existence. I can’t see
seagulls circling the foul mess searching for
a scrap of bread, yet I know they’re not far from here.

Every morning it’s cold and the nights are even worse.
I force my feelings into a small box, I am done
asking why any of this has happened.

Death’s cloud surrounds me in this square room
while I sleep. I want to touch his hands one more time,
but I can’t reach them.