after the sparrowhawk attack the talon-marks show a puncture-wound below each wing if the dove is quiet if she's calm bird-flesh heals fast

It can be any one of us. How to pass over limits, rise above needles in the hand finding a port in a vein? How to get over the prepping with marker pens, not writing but being written on? How to go beyond

I'll never arrive on moving land in shifting skies I need the map of another planet No valley or hill no roads, no cars in a white shell I'm hearing the sea who's hidden the stars? Snow seeks a form a

Rock crystal, a clear quartz. Ice-like, hope freezes in one of the living stones. Dipped in drinking water to protect against disease, it transfuses a bowlful with its gleam. The charmstone radiates itself.

Original Poem / Two Haiku

Original Poem / Two Haiku

Original Poem / Quietly Confident

moonlight glides in over the windowsill like the soporific tide of warm bath-water bubbles like the oiled slide of fingertips on soapy skin

Where the hare rises like the wind over open space follow him going uphill watch him leap to break the trail near his resting-place in the boat-shaped trodden pad keeping his print grounded put a hand

it's the time for lime citrus zest of sex the bitter sublime taste of fresh -ness sweet crime of new birth lines a grime-free regeneration sign life which beats sunbeams which bleach skins like moist paper

source To engage with the rewarding journey of posting you have to become one with it's conscious essence. The Steemit platform is nothing short of an evolving current of unified divinity and such you

she folded black back on itself she an origami shadow neatly drawn in and in on herself she awkwardly elegant teases limbs apart, unfolds her secret structure and keeps unfolding limbs like wings with

As we bathe under the bridge   intoxication drops dead, is washed up   on the beach   where old animals in the trees watch us   with ill-concealed

The truth in a glass of Tuscan grappa, that life has passed without having tasted her cherry red lips, that life has passed without having kissed her pale neck. In another glass of grappa; “it’s all biology.”

The unemployed in the harbor hang in clusters      Drink to forget the day to avoid tomorrow.      Somewhere they remember their childhood, the hand that

A boreal storm rages - it's the time when the rowan-berries ripen. Awake in the darkness, I can hear the constellations stomping in their stalls high above the trees. I lie on the bed with my arms widely

The cloud that moves the evening forward resembles a girl with curls, adorned with a fiery red tiara, the hair a floating veil. The heavenly deer she hunts, but finds no celestial prey. Weepingly, she

This is an anti-war poem I wrote during the height of the Yugoslav Wars in the 1990's, but it's as relevant these days, unfortunately.

May I kiss your hand, little juniper bush, and put my arm around you, big stone? Can I tickle your beard, little tuft of moss, and bite your silvery bark, mighty birch? May I be really light again and

The child in the garden