Two Mountains

A poem should stink of its poet.
A poet should stink of his poems.

The writer: bent over a page.
The poem: silent in the winter of nowhere.

Both eternally alone
in their spaces.

The two are neighboring mountainsides,
joining at one common origin,
then rising up,
ever away from one another.

The Page

The page is the runner’s track;
alone with oneself.
At the starter’s blocks,
trembling with anticipation,
wanting to know what one is capable of.
Wanting to know the pain one can take.

The page is the silent counselor;
it never offers advice,
remains open to any possibility,
demands nothing,
offers everything.

I love you, page.

Keep At It

Keep at it.

It may not look
like others are doing
what you are doing.

You are alone.
– Every one of us is alone.

Trust yourself.
Trust the need within you
that gives birth to words.

Compare as little as possible for now.

Eventually you will compare.
But not now.

Not until you can work
without even noticing whether or not
others are watching you.

Trust the process.
Trust the page.

Keep at it.

keep at it

The Pen

With you, we whisper,
with you, we long,
with you, we feel.

And prick.
And pry.
And open the wound,
then sew it closed.

You are the bridge to new places,
to new sights,
far away things.

You are the doorway,
to new, imagined lands.


The Joy of Writing

Just give me some public spot
to sit and watch.
To observe, learn, and describe;
to taste with my pen.

Connecting with this world through words
feels good as anything I have ever felt.

This music.
These people around me.

Just feeling it all.
Sewing it all together with words.

No agenda.
No plan.
Just creating.

That is my joy.



When the sunshine illuminates
every face you see.

When the world feels good and gentle.

When it all makes sense;
questions, answered.

When you see the green in the grass;
smell fall in the leaves.

When it seems that pain has a place;
chaos, reason.

When the words fall gently
from your fingertips,
painting it all on paper.


flying birds

Photo courtesy of kelzbelzphotography. For more photos, check out:


To write is to have a home nowhere
and everywhere.

It is to be a vagabond,
lost in a world of beauty.

It is to become noone;
only a silent Eye and Hand,
watching things pass by
and trying to understand.

Noticing all the little things
that get trampled underfoot
like a layer of soft snow.






Poetry does not begin, or end,
at the desk;

it is a way of seeing the world;
a way of taking it in;
a way of allowing Life to pass through.

Painters see a world of colors;
photographers, a world of pictures;
novelists, a world of stories;
poets, a world of meanings.



I cut out ten pages of poems.
Tear them in half,
open the fireplace door,
set them on the pyre.

The edges catch fire,
ink igniting,
pages curling inwards:
black and white rose petals.

The ink disappears.
The pages return to white.

burning pages

Writing Advice To Myself

Any and every word you set down
is perfect
simply because it is.

Any and every subject you choose
is perfect
simply because you believe in it.

Share your work,
if only to know yourself more.

being wrong,
Romantic, ignorant.

Be vulnerable.
Be real.
Be open.


Have fun doing it.