Empty Hearts

He lets the wind take him places, far and wide.  He’s light as a feather because he carries no secrets.  That’s the mark of a writer.

He recklessly empties his heart out on parchment; audience or none, that’s his quiet calling.  He need not rack his brain for words fitting, for they flow like the river empties itself freely onto the endless ocean.  He’s held by no boundaries because his mind is infinite.  That’s the mark of a writer.

His heart is empty except for his desire.  To fill his heart with awe and wonder, only to empty it again, is his never-ending cycle.  He seeks his own passion.  He creates his own world.  He is nowhere to be found, yet he is everywhere.  That’s the mark of a writer.

Empty your heart out today.  See what words you find.



the colors of fall embrace the horizon;
delicate petals rush to hide their sweets;
cold and blue, waves gently fold upon the seashore.
in a blessing of fate, two spirits meet.

as darkness wraps itself blind around my fingers,
trees bare themselves naked in winter haze.
the tides in retreat reveal more than expected;
thoughts last more than his momentary gaze.

the dawn shimmers sunrise in sleepless hope and faith
while greens sway in soft sunlit reverie;
dance and crash. inevitably, the moon directs:
she does as waterfalls – beautifully.

mild afterglow skies reminiscent of your face,
the lonely world yields to flames – so do i.
oceans ablaze, what miracles can spark from this?
believe that even hearts can be on fire.

27 September 2005

The In Betweens

I take breaks. In between,
I do work that’s needed to be made.
I hold my breath, and count the air I take
in between.  I close my eyes sweetly, and then slowly
open them to the dreamy world
in between my eyelids.
I part my lips softly, and let my tongue slip past gently
in between. And all the love in between.
They grow. They grow. They grow.

The slight creases on your forehead and the skin
in between.
I kiss.  The folds in your worn fingers
and all that is felt in between.
I hold.  The quiet conversations we hold
in between the short silence.  I hear.
The little secrets in between
lines read and lines said.  I dutifully keep.
The many cracks on the wall and the darkness
in between.
They grow.  They grow.  They grow.

The sun that automatically rises in between
the darkness.  The clandestine moon that stays hidden
in between blinding daylight.
The stars that keep still in between the passing time.
And all that space
in between.
They grow.  They grow.  They grow.

In between the rising and falling
of the rushing tides and in between
the lonely waves of the dawning light is where all is lost
and all is found.
The prayers in between
and the soul that gleams.
I grow and grow and grow.