The work below is mine and mine alone. I do like the thoughts I have put forward here although I do not believe everyone will find what I found in my work. I present it here for those who are interested, to read. If you have a positive comment, feel free to send me a message. Negative comments, unless constructive in nature, are not wanted. I am by no means a poet, nor do I intend to be. If you find a moment of recognition below, great, if you don't, there are several poetry books out there, try a few, you may find something that opens your eyes for a moment. The pieces below are far from gramatical, and they lack any poetic form what so ever. They are free form, the way I believe artistic expression should be, unbounded by the rigid requirements of any language.

The Rose

Red, Pink and Yellow
Green the leaves that cover
Thorny the bush that protects
Desire the hand's guide
Thorns upon the eyes not seen
Forward the hand moves
Uninjured, unscathed
Bloody the hand retreats
Thorn the eyes now seek
The path open, the Rose alone
Forward again the hand does spring
The Rose retrieved, the fragrance sweet
Trouble and danger, worth it all
For the flower they call
The Rose.


A table, four legs, glass top
upon a plush carpet, blue, and soft.
The table varnished and alone in the room,
and upon the table, a vase.
The vase, holding delightful flowers,
given in the spirit of love, caring.
Alive the flowers, as is the love they
symbolize. The vase, the recepticle
of the love, nurturing it with the
water it holds, and keeping it safe from
harm. And oh how I envy the vase, to hold
something so precision, and yet stand unwavering
The vase, ornate, or plain, both serve the same
unchanging and important duty.
The vase often strong yet fragile.
For a little bump of the table, it
could fall, pieces shattered and
love, the flowers, thrown from protection
The flowers left alone, to wither
and die, and love to cease. How
fragile is love, protected only by
a small vase, on the table, in a
room alone, on the plush carpet.

Untitled (Original Title: One)

She stood there on the corner, dressed in black.
Her golden locks ruffled in the light breeze.
I came to face her and saw that sadness filled her eyes.
Why I can only guess, for she did not speak nor utter a sound
Behind her, stood a building of great dispair, and my guess,
For guess is all I could do, is that she had just been there.
Been there to say her last farewell to a person dear to her heart.
My heart reached out to her, and in her eyes, a moment of recognition.
As though, for just a moment, she knew that I understood.
And with this understanding there was a mutual sharing of experience.
She reached her hand out to me, and I took it in mine.
Firmly grasped then pulled her in for a hug.
I can't tell you why two strangers hugged on the corner that day.
But my heart knew it was right, and my heart has seldom been wrong.
I never saw that lovely lady again, and I really don't regret that.
For I know, that for one moment, brief, but full, our souls touched,
And for a moment we were one.

Looking Forward (Original Title: Forward)

A man sits on a stump,
His head is held in his hands.
Beside him, grave stones,
One has a fresh look.
The man's head rises,
He looks at the grave stone,
His eyes fill with sadness.
He looks to his hands, a ring glitters in the sunshine,
His eyes look back, memories of yesterdays gone by.
His thoughts are of those yesterdays,
His wish is to return their,
To once again be with the woman, whose ring he bares.
Forward a cloud of unknown fills his site.
His thoughts are that the path ahead holds dispair, sadness.
Nothing he sees makes him happy.
Happiness was found in her arms.
Her eyes lit up the night like a candle.
Her face made the finest rose pale in comparison.
Now what does he have?
A ring, a photo album, a memory.
It is said that she will live there, in his thoughts,
But where will he live?
He can not live in his thoughts.
He knows that however dark, the path ahead must be taken.
He stands, removes his ring, places it in the dirt by the grave.
He steps forward, then returns.
He removes the ring from the dirt, cleans it and returns it to his finger.
There is more than a memory.
There is something to look forward to, a reunion.

The Reunion (incomplete)

A swirl of images, flashing quicker and quicker.
Images recognized yet alien.
A room white, people hovering, darkness.
Then more images, receeding.
A face, wait, that face.
The past, relived.
Wait, bring it back, the image fades to another.
Suddenly, nothing.
Then light, bright, true, good.
Alluring, and peaceful.
Though not walking, but moving ever toward the light.
Then, the face there, the past?
Then another memory, pain, anguish.
Alone, on the path of life, now again, joined.
Hands ever grasping, and a smile, the smile.
The eyes that lit up the night look into his.
The day he had waited for, for a long time.
Finally here, and yet where?
Place matters not, but to be with her.
Hand and Hand, they move together, into the light.
Only thoughts now are on the Reunion, now come to light.