Cold Flames

When the fire gets cold, it turns into ashes.

Flames evaporate when it freezes.

A fire put out is one hell of a rage.


The Artist’s Memory

Letting go is an Art form. To an artist, letting go means forgetting

yet moving forward. It becomes deja vu; to see again whats been forgotten.

To remember what’s already’s happened. Again. Only to forget.


Jenkins’ Song

Bury me alive with your song.

Sing me a tune in notes

melodically intricate

That penetrates your throat.


Sing it to me loudly

Let me feel it with my being

Sing it to me proudly

I want to hear what you’re feeling.


I want to dance like you’re watching

I want to sing along with umph.

Keep the tunes coming, honey

Let me sing until my throat has a lump.


Photo by Linda Xu on Unsplash


Death Goes to Sleep

Death is the ultimate high.

Go to sleep.

Go to sleep, you’re alive.


waited for you in the night.

You died. Sunrise, I’m dying too.

High in the sky, where the birds don’t fly.

Where the leaves don’t sing;

where questions lie.


Where water flows as the fire melted.

Soil burns, as wind projected.

Buried in time, you try to fly

Buried in time, you try to find

A meeting place of day and night.

Death is the ultimate high.

Go to sleep.

Go to sleep, you’re alive.



Photo by Javardh on Unsplash

Sipping & Slipping

Sip goes the contents of the cup

Into my bloodstream & into

the cup sipped from the contents

slipping into the sip of my cup.


Slipping goes the sip of the mind

sipped from the slipping of the cup

drinking from a slip of the mind

cupped into the sip of my cup.


streaming goes the sip of the cup

contents slipping into the mind

slipped into the drinking of the sip

Sipped from the streaming of my cup.


Photo by Benjamin Voros on Unsplash








Strictly Writtly

I fantasize through words,

who and in which are just for us.

I wrote you a letter of meticulously

Masterfully written–from my distressed hands-

Sound, turned noise, turned

Spaces in between alphabet, begat from

Noise begat from whispers that we tell ourselves.

What’s in a name that gives physical structures an Identity?

Original from the rest, begat from the rest.

I fantasize about words

Turned into action, turned into distressed captured moments

of life we believe are truths.

Photo by Florencia Viadana on Unsplash



Nefertari’s Letters

Tell me something. Anything you’d like I enticed.

                                          I see you. Do you see me? 

I do. Tell me something. Anything you’d like, I begged.

                                                I need you. I want all of you.

                                                                    Tell me something. Anything you’d like. 

I think I need you too.

                                                                     Incredible. Beautiful. I do. I miss you. 

I smile when I think of you.

                                                                        A lost queen from a lost time. A queen                                                                      with a beautiful name. You are gold.

You’re my missing piece, I insist.

Tell me something.

                                                                        Yes Beautiful, as you wish. You have                                                                                    set my heart free. A royal queen who chose me. 

Tell me. I feel blessed. 

Tell me something. The paranoid feeling is back.

                        Breath, it’s OK. 

Tell me something? I ask through dark shadowy lenses.

                                                                       I’m excited to kiss you. To talk to you. To kiss you. 

I need you.

                                  I need you. I see you. 

Tell me something. I’m panicking.

                            You are Beautiful. 


Photo by Simon Matzinger on Unsplash