We spend our days,
Getting ready for tomorrow,

Hoping the past will not catch us,
The bad eating, the saccharin juices, when

Now is the only moment, to

Love, to

Re-pack your life, forgive –

On an adventure or,
Simply state your piece,

It will be alright.

We may yet,
Save the climate.

♦photo♦ – High Museum Art of Atlanta

-short evocative poetry-

For my friends battling Cancer.

Published in: on December 14, 2015 at 23:30  Leave a Comment  
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There is an Angel here


There must be an angel looking over your shoulder.

There must be, even if you
Don’t see her,
An Angel.

There are creatures on other, Worlds,
That look like us but, For the clothing they wear;

…delicate, gauze-like materials, that blaze…
…yet do no harm.

One visited last night, pointing out my story, -where I had come from and where I was going-

Billowing from a turquoise dress, As she beckoned.

We traveled in straight lines and at fantastic speeds,
I was not afraid.

“Come,” she said, “Look here.”
“In this ocean there are many levels, Much like your own we just,
Live, In the waters…”

And I look at the ocean she is pointing out,
Like the metal Mercury, lit By an amber Sun.

“The ones with technology,” she continued, “Live deep within the Mantle,
But not on, The Core…
…and they breath a finer form of this liquid, Than our air.”

“How do they move?”, I ask,

“Their locomotion”, she says, “Is fueled,
By magnetic fields in cold gas.”


It is not in the splitting of radiant metals, Rather,
In the special densities, Of Gold in the right chambers,

The surfaces of Neutron Stars, Super-conducting,


Immiscible in the sludge, That allows them to breath,
And to replicate, And to think.

The creatures on the crust sting, But the planet is defended,
By those further down, And the fumes they exude.

All beings discover that light will not be overtaken if,
Faster Than Light drives are to deliver FTL speed,

That travel is not powered, It is transported,

In handbags as you will,
And I saw people long dead, Connected to people still alive,

Creating those to be.

The last thing I remember is the string of pearls she was holding, In her pale, lussatite hands;

How they seemed to stretch out everlastingly…
We were still in motion.

-short evocative poetry-

Published in: on June 14, 2015 at 19:19  Comments (1)  
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Dying is the first race


Never mind Lawyers,
Children with no mouths,

Never mind Inspiration,
Write Now.

Photo – ♦Personal♦

-short evocative poetry-

Published in: on January 29, 2015 at 18:15  Leave a Comment  
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