Category: Poetry
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Where the Present Has Not Learned to Look
Some possibilities do not announce themselves. They wait in the shape of an unasked question. A path does not need a travelerbefore it becomes a path. Sometimes the future begins as somewhere the present has not learned to look.
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The Weather Does Not Owe Us a Forecast
The mind wakes in pieces. No emergency. Nothing has necessarily been misplaced. A thought is simply in another room. A memory has gone outside without leaving a note. Curiosity is sitting beside the window,watching something we cannot yet see. The weather changes. It does not consult the calendar. It does not explain itself. It does…
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The Places That Learn Our Shape
There are places that never learn our names. They do not need to. A footpath learns by the weight with which it is trusted. A chair learns through evenings that end there. A window slowly gathers the quiet habit of being looked through just before dusk. None of these remember in the human sense. Yet…
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The Man Who Kept Running
Stephen Crane once wrote a tiny poem. I saw a man pursuing the horizon;Round and round they sped.I was disturbed at this; I accosted the man.“It is futile,” I said,“You can never —”“You lie,” he cried, And ran on. Most readings of the poem treat the runner as foolish. The horizon is an illusion. No…
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Whisper Poem
something tilts in the quiet architecture of what is known not a break not a fall but a soft departure from perfect alignment and in that angle new light enters without asking permission it does not explain itself it does not stay it only changes what can be seen for a moment and that is…
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Parallel
Parallel Two pathslearn the shape of each otherwithout crossing. They travel the same dark,carry the same distance,share a directionwithout agreement. Nothing is missing.Nothing is delayed. Parallel is not failure.It is a form of keeping pace.
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The Smallest Aperture
A thought opens—barely,thin as breath on cold glass— and suddenly the whole sky knowswhere to enter. Sometimes the most meaningful openings appear not in grand revelations but in the faintest shifts of attention—the small apertures through which the wider lattice begins to glow.
We Are All Data Inside 