ponders myself


A day that’s already bled in

(365 times Hallmark)

to our psyches’ movement

through mountained plains

perpetual translating

of the countenanced refrains

that echo

after birth.


The depth obfuscated, unsung


we play punctiliously with undone


and the cardium layers hold hands


tremoring with the ache

of a thousand forms.


For nothing is what it seams

we wake from wrongly so/ewn dreams

in that cold sweat of generations

we honour with strange venerations

those undeserving.


And there’s no way to finish these lines

kaleidoscoped mystery of a child’s eyes…


My beautiful mother in the 60s before she was married. Always loving on everyone. One of my biggest regrets was never recording her angelic singing voice. She won’t let me now! We’ll see…