Wandering Thought # 125

He who cannot control his emotions will be controlled by them.

Your sense of worth rises from within, and nothing in the outside world can compensate for it.

Many years later you realize that writing poetry has also been a way of writing your own life. So one bright morning you stand and look, amazed, at the poem of your life.

As it turns out, silence is the hardest discipline, the hardest thing to maintain.


Wandering Thought # 124

Everything built on a lie will become too heavy to support itself and will ultimately crumble out of its own weight.

No two people ever love each other equally. The one who is less in love is always the more rational one.

Our styles of attachment as adults are modeled after our relationship with our parents.

Few are the people who become even more beautiful after you meet them.

Hope is the biggest deceiver of mankind, but without it our lives would not be worth living; we would practically take no action, embark on no journey, and take no risk. May our hopes grow ever greater and greater, and with them our disappointments. May our hopes coincide with what is best and most lofty in us.

Free Verse # 458 (watching her sleep)

This warmth between us
the knitted verse of poetry


Life happens while you wait
for a lover to ease the knot of fate


What am I? — Just a shadow passing in the rain.


If someone asked me
what proof have I got
that I really lived,
I’d only have my poetry.


Wounded by this longing,
I write poetry.


Water washes the skin but rain cleanses the soul.


she walks in my dreams
spilling moonlight
from her dark hair,
her breath
a candle whispering
the softest intimacy.


Watching her sleep,
to the candle’s light
he weaves his breath
and covers her gently.

Wandering Thought # 123

Writing, when true and honest, is a path that leads us deeper and deeper into the forest of silence. In the end we become listening itself, vibration, tune, melody, the inner sound of the world and all its objects; we become, if it is possible, pure openness. We also become extremely solitary, as the distance around us grows and grows. It cannot be said that we lost ourselves, but that we traded one path for another. Of course, this choice cannot be recognized by the majority who are only familiar with noise and oblivious of their own soul.

Another Way of Being

As though life
is a fog,
a fading dream,
vanishing as we reach
to touch it,
images shivering in the water,
flowing away, already gone
when barely seen.

We live in the afterglow
of things that were,
eclipsed before being
fully embodied,
things filled with decay
even as they flourished,
things that are always leaving
only to lead us on and on
to a nowhere that exists
only in our hearts.

The heaviest love
is weightless and impotent.
The strongest attachments
are thin as the wind.

In this vast, endless
I pray, teach me
let me become love. The only journey is the one within,
all else is illusory.