Hellenism Come Again (to The Old Church 1882 Music Hall)

Hellenism Come Again  (to The Old Church 1882 Music Hall)

Seeing a church converted
into a music hall uplifts
my faith in the actions
of people on the inside.

Reminiscent reversal
of times back when
we became a Christian
West sacrificing Old
Temples to New God.

Now churches turn
time back to classical
Temples where sacred
is music and worshiped.


City of Greyscale


The bridge is a magic eye painting

striations cut the landscape

squeeze your eyes and be transported

steel rains in, between buildings

tilt your head into another dimension.

All metal, all sky

they slice eachother down the street

wet pavement shines

a cold reflection

cut with light

horizontal majesty

the rainbow is an oil slick

graffiti on the railing.

A group of teens disembark

leprechauns, all

living in the city of Greyscale.

Response to a line from an Untitled Poem “Sidewalk is a rainbow taking me out of my life” -poet unknown

I found a nice path through the forest

of my life.

Content, yes, and growing

but it’s been ages

since I felt the scratching of pen

against trees- pulped and lined.

We make new leaves of white:

red and blue measure our words,

stack them in rows atop one another

and our brains make sense

of ink on a forest.

My pen is  a purple twig

as of yet, unruly in damp hands.

>Last Night I Didn’t Dance

>Profound sadness seeps into everything I see, spotted with dots of happiness- faint, but piercing.
Bright stars coldly seen and burning hot, so far away.
I’m waiting for myself to come back to me and I wish I could dance with the multitudinous masses.
My feet stuck firm to the ground and I’m paralyzed by tears falling in the face of trees.
To grow so strong, stretching ever upwards to catch joy pouring forth from a golden sun.



Slipping, slipping, slipping away

I’ve felt it for months now

that gradual fade, “the end is nigh.”

Slowly, softly, slipping away.

Hope fades as hot memories sting my cheeks and burrow down deeper than I knew.

There’s a chasm inside wherein I hurl dead parts of myself to churn into something new and real.

I stand at the edge of the ravine and I throw in laziness and pain. I toss out lies and get a running start before drop-kicking pity down the well.

I tried to chuck my heartache over the edge…

Hearts are fickle, they seek out pleasure and pain alike. Hearts are sticky, bouncy things that ride on your sleeve and whisper sweet nothings. They roll around orbiting like so many planets in the sky- gravity and heavy and pushing pressure around every side.

I don’t want to forget anything, I just wish I wouldn’t remember every second so vividly. Every kiss fresh and hugs and words and cuddles and smiles and every happy second imprinted for eternity in a heart that I’d rather let be.

Slipping, slipping, slipping away

It’s so hard to let go

when there’s nothing to hold onto.

Slowly, softly, slipping away.



Bliss can overflow from one to another
tickling noses and pin-pricking.
Bliss laughs it’s way around a room
making giddy little knots all over
that can only ever be giggled,
stretched, hugged or smooched out.
Bliss can lead you astray from dogged
drudgery painting a path in your life.
Bliss waits for no-one and beckons
by tugging your shirt-collar incessantly
pulling toward your inner magnificence,
bright, shiny, and full of dreams.
Bliss wants what’s best for the world
and what’s best for the earth is you.
bliss knows best and bliss knows true
the deepest and holiest place inside
that beats fiercely for happiness,
comfort, hope and life; follow it.