photo: Tenby, December 2016, fence, detail, when aging means beautifying.
Circle the dark thoughts,
so they fall below zero
Dedicate the beautiful stories
to the sad widows of heroes
Burn in the evening stars
and bow to the words
*posted in 2017
first uploaded 2017
photo: This poem was written while looking at the Atlantic from Aberystwyth, back when I wasn’t taking photos. This photo was taken near Wellington.
The greedy waves kept coming
the waves, what waves!
and the grey seagulls
in the dying light
of a surprising winter
but the waves, what waves!
and the grey seagulls,
and the foaming surf
almost scared
of its own tide
that would delete the words of love
written in the sand of the afternoon
photo : the endless ability of the tides to create beauty day after day.
Like the tide is scribbling down on the sand
the mood of its waves
I will scribble my page
with those emotions that do not want to be dissected
*posted in August 2022, edited in August 2026
photo : Havana, always busy
The day was dissolving
into the evening news:
dreams stripped
of their misty
cover, one would have to take refuge
under the stairs.
This was expected
but not all the noise
on the city’s cobblestones.
photo: this winter, I often walk with my new friend, the poet John Berryman, who inspires me when I see a sky like this.
the grey sky
like a bad omen,
a large ink blot on the duvet
but the rainbow offers me peace
and hope, if it exists,
we shall see tomorrow
if the hands still move in the morning.
