the air hangs stiffly
clouds sharpened by frenzied winds
of change
the contour of devastation
raves against itself in a poem,
colour and contrast strike an
uneasy truce
with the underworld--
to the surface, rise;
the ferry across is sinking fast into
pomegranate seed

my house is not a home, my abode
is not a poem,
a deck of cards
shuffled by some fanciful breeze
and scattered into
a compendium of inner silence
i bear down as If i am giving
birth to time itself:

another thunder god has spoken,
lightening etches fear
deep into the maelstrom--
the taste
of blood oranges swirling
in my mouth,

i will not be ignored

if only to seize the vanishing light
brewing
in a tempest's teapot,
i the vortex of poetry,
rage on...
never more brutal,
never more kind,
words that mark passages
of what i leave behind,
and that which comes what may,

never more brutal,
never more kind.