The Muse (Raanana, March 31, 2019) I feel a bitter pleasure in remembering that day In the forest outside our small village. I was walking down a leafy path Toward the little lake where I would sit By the water with my back against a smooth rock To make some modest sketches And write what came to me. Down the shore a ways The woman sat as was her wont Without a stitch of clothing on her Back against the generous trunk of...

This poem will start with an “I’m sorry” But it will not be meant  Because yes it hears the birds chirping And sees the flowers sway in the warmed breeze The sun is shining upon its face But the same sun burns and ages the skin   The heart of this poem does not sing Its words are darker than just blue It sees the storm as it approaches This poem welcomes the rain Tonight the moon will not be missed But encouraged to hide...

I’m not entirely sure I like you.Everything here is too bright and too dark. It’s a fucking paradox and it doesn’t make any sense.It doesn’t even make paradoxical sense.Like, why am I sitting here typing this? My hands are betraying me.The wind is harsh, yet comforting.Why’m I even drunk? Am I sober? Do I exist? Ugh, questions!Like, I could just write this out like some kinda paragraphy thing. I could write in complete se...

Over the seaAwaits his loveSteadfast and unchangingHer word of loyaltyA comfort to himThrough the darkest of timesA Northern StarOne fixed point throughout the instabilityOver the seaAwaits his hopeThe promise of a new love and a new lifeEver present and patientWhispered promises of fidelity and loyaltyThrough the rugged landscape And the elemental mistress that is the waterLays the promise of her warm embraceOver the sea...

A friend of mine is having a hard time. His no love, no job, no idea what to do with myself state is getting to him. Hope is on the horizon. I'm absolutely sure of this for him. Why, because he's my friend and my love does wonders. In the meantime…Blah, blah, blah. Survival is tough mentally.  My advice to him: Write.  He’s talented. It is a side thing for him, I know. However, writing is in him--if you know what I mean....

Some certain ransom in this agony, To write, to tell, recount, recite… That majesty of lying and signing that purified fraud a story is, How shameless could be asking a poem ask you things instead of me, And who is me? Some certain freedom in this rhapsody, To touch, to smell, to taste and bite… That alchemy of hiding by carrying that glorified mask a hero is, How aimless of me asking ten pens what they’ve sensed that I c...

I pick up my pen and paper to write, but my head is blank, empty of words. Blank like a clean lonely slate that will never know the pleasure of words written on it for company, empty like the hollowness of nothing. I feel like a soul still searching for purpose and meaning and finding none, begins to believe anything that offers even the smallest succour, that offers a way out even if it's the wrong way out. I stare at th...

Over the years, I’ve been asked by quite a few people how to meditate. Each time I mention that I meditate, I’m bound to be asked how to do it. I’ll tell you how I, personally, meditate. Bear in mind, that my way will differ from other people’s. This is not an exact definitive guide, but more like a little advice that I’ve noticed works for myself and may well work for you. The first step is to go somewhere relaxing. It c...

My muse has gone missing! She just up and left. Abandoned, alone... I'm confused and bereft. I've looked high and low, But she's not to be found. Dagnabit! Why, oh why, did she Have to go underground? The world slows to a crawl When my muse isn't here. Plainly, she is the one Who shifts me out of low gear. Without her, 'tis true I'm at a sad loss. For in most facets of life, My muse is the boss. What's for dinner? Who kno...

Palpable is the frustration of inability to be bothered to write. Frustration is reading that first sentence back and realising how fucking clumsy it is, though it does arguably get the point across. Satisfaction is having written a paragraph and moving on to a second one, but annoyance is not being able to think of where to take it. Soreness is the head that is scratched... Because who the fuck doesn’t scratch their head...

The heavy feelings of a transitional state of mind.Channeled into meaningsfor personalities of any kind. Enabler, healer of the soulher fickle emotions, enticingly wayward.Sexually lofty, deviously foulinciting poets, never awkward. Lamenting lord of darkness,molder of words, pulled into lightby the angel of starkness,effervescent and eternally bright. Like fire and water,a joining of apocalyptic power.Destructive touch o...

Love Thoughts on a Sunday Morningwaking to a quiet bed my mind races to youwishing hoping for a call from my loverI turn to you begging for a call a minute is allmy heart with feel as a minute turns to eternity to hear your sweet voice as if church bells ringingwarming my heart and soul so I sit my animals looking on wait I must for I know you will happiness will once more bloom