Poem — At The Grave Of Wilde

At Wildes grave

If every man could take

A page out of Wildes book;

Learning of love

And holding it

Despite others and learning

Of life’s unearned heart aches

No longer containing it, leaving it buried

In dusted caches.

We look at stars

Regardless of which gutter

we come from

But we learn to be

At home in such gutters

Afraid of the stars themselves.

You taught others

That a single star

Could be worth a damn

And that the flowers we leave behind

Are worth preserving

Even when no one may be listening

We still have love even

The coldest of places.

An Irish peacock who learned

To downplay his plumage,

You were taught that love

In whatever stages of its complexity

Was never noble, nor worth pursuing

Nor worth claiming even when

It is caught in your minds darkest webs

I lay down, and lay two gifts

A bright collection of a rainbow bouquet

And a small, bright red lipstick

You need to look your best

For where you are going

I hope to see you down there

One day.

Poem — Death Is Neither For Him Nor For Her

Death Is Neither For Him Nor Her
It is for the old and starving
they know its foul breath
for lines of earth and clouds stirring:
It is the anger of their god within,
they are stirs of twisted fires swirling
And for the poor bastards screaming,
Or for tainted whisperers
Who’s souls, so befallen
haunted by the world’s fake healers

Death marches on in screaming banter
tricking mortals with false hope
That God, without a glimmer
Would think one or the other
Be worth saving, perhaps, even slimmer
Tell you that another might be leading you
Into salvation, even when another is killed
Only for it’s namesake?
Then tell this God, whoever he may lay
That you will not drift into that dark lake.

Death is for no one, it preaches nothing
At least, it’s honest, and true to it’s name
Unlike the Preacher, condemning his lesser
Death is neither angel nor demon
It is not worth forgetting, nor saving
When it reaches for the hand of your love
Ask yourself its why’s and wherefore’s
and keep its mysteries within your heart
Youth does not forsake death, yet it still
Relinquishes its place among time.

Death is neither for him nor her
Nor a solemn guild for horror
It is of us, as humans, we are
What death makes of us
Even if we mistake it as God
Or the will of the heavens.
It is not what we see of it
Nor what we think of it
But what may enlighten it
and that we know, what it is not.

Poem — Trevi Fountain

“Marcello, come here!” rings its voice

Gods wrestle with pegasus

And sing its marble chorus

Even the trumpets adorned could not silence

The trickle of pennies into its fountain

Old as it is, and now ever new

With young eyes we can trace back

The youth of this city.

This is for Rome; no one else

Absolute white, and a marvel for the ages

Audite Oculis Meis

Hear my eyes sing

And hear it once more

Poem — Sky Over Tehran

Open the window as the plane tilts

Skyward you will find a quartz concerto

Mixed with rays of sunlight

To the east lies it’s end

To the west, it is still a mystery

A soft whisper of a secret horizon.

Blood red skies show the life beneath

The land of Old Man Khayyam speaks true even now

Even if what was permitted then

Is not so now, why worry?

I will drink in this sunlight

And swim in the lands oceanic clouds.

The rising sun, lifted by desert sands

And the colours that drift along with it

Even upward, where no light is seen

The dawn is what welcomes it

Where light kisses dark

And the sun gently rises.

Poem — Darkness

All I see is the purple of the sky

And the laden clouds dripping water

To all the dried land and broken fields

But the darkness of drought and death

Oncoming with the drench of darkness;

The Old hitching onto youth

With the issues and problems of their day

Ignoring the cries of the people who

Are telling them that the world is losing its light:

“We are as we were built, and as we were”

But the young do tend to ask:

“But you were there when the darkness became noon”

“We are as we were” they say

And a straight answer is never provided.

Our generation grew up with 9/11

The resulting fear stifling us

And tearing beauty from it’s pedestal

Though, we soon found out, it never existed.

Terror fell from the darkened skies

Even as we see the darkening sky

And question amongst eachother

Why we learned to fear before we learn

It becomes clear that all we had

Was the drought laden lands

And the storms of our parents

Who left a desert to us

Commanding us to pretend

As if it were paradise.

Our land is the land of horror

And the terror of what we were told

Even when darkness holds us hostage

And we demand answers, we will always be told:

“We were as we were built, it is what we were taught”

This is why, I think, we are built in darkness.

Poem — Straight Face

Tell me now

Can you still talk

With a straight face

Or with dowturned wit

Tell me the worst

Of what you had to offer

Even when

It is hard to excuse

Your blatant lies

Through a glass

Of cheap ass wine

Or a banal stare

Away from strangers

And in your belief

That no problems

Are here.

Poem — November 15, 2017 (rewrite)

Today my best friend told me

That he would be my best man

When love would finally be free

And not be lessened

by all others that came before

When the veils of love blossomed

Like a sunrise singing over the horizon


We danced in the streets again

water and sweat drenched off of our

bare bodies, now waking to a better dawn

In this sticky, tropical heat

we were celebrating our lost loves

that were all but judged


When our country left us to the dogs

we screamed back, “we are loved”

Which no postal opinion could barge

Here we were, dancing in tropical stench

Too happy to ever care, who would judge

In a country we thought, had preferred our pain


We could now love, without sin

Or thought, with what others would do or say

To our lost brothers and sisters

Who never loved the one they wished

or married in a lovers bliss

We love and drink to you as resistors

of anger and hatred, lover’s fighters

You are in our heart’s, however much

it hurts to talk, about the young lovers

Now lost to barking hate, we drink to you

Our brothers and sisters lost

Lost to the sorrow of hatreds prime.