Cradle of SolitudeFor we know not why our tribulationsare given as suchour fragile formscreated from the dust…

Yet you stand, too ashamed to run, too fearful to embrace. God I see so much ofwhat I love in that face.

An author never lies. We do, however tend to speak in a fictional prose.

Living in this skin is hard and painful, most of the times, because I never volunteered to take this on. The daily sacrifice of heart over mind,the forever ongoing task of explaining this and that,and...

What is above all needed is to let the meaning choose the word, and not the other way around. In prose, the worst thing you can do with words is to surrender to them.

…and I laugh and I spin and dance and frolic in ecstasy and I… I hurt no more, while you…you petrified little man, are left to wonder if it’s you I speak of.

Hasten Little Maiden…stop and listenfor pearls of wisdomstop and listen as the river glistens…

What did Saturday’s used to taste like? Like eggs and fried ham and the bitter smell of hair in heavy rollers. Like long quiet hours and making up after a fight. Like ointment and bruising....

A prose that is altogether alive demands something of the reader that the ordinary novel reader is not prepared to give.

I am not a Sunday morning inside four wallswith clean bloodand organized drawers.I am the hurricane setting fire to the forestsat night when no one else is aliveor awakehowever you choose to see itand I...

I’m here”.It was a beautiful night.

Because even when there is no hope, somehow you can still find a place to pin inside the things that you need.

Ett ärr är vad som uppstår när ordet blir kött.

The River SwishDeftly maneuvered through the dark green abyss ~The wooden raft seemed in tune with this ~Canorous rush of theriver swish….

Most people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of life. To have ruined one’s self over poetry is an honour.

She tried to focus on the element of riddle or at least puzzle contained in the letter and ignore the sense of doom that was sweeping through her like clouds rolling to the shore over...

why be bothered with other people’s set-ups? it only leads to torture.

An artist must be passionately in love with her art. Obsessed or possessed ― go mad for what you believe in.

I will find comfort in the rhythm of the sea.

Colors shone with exceptional clarity in the rain. The ground was a deep black, the pine branches a brilliant green, the people wrapped in yellow looking like special spirits that were allowed to wander over...

On the edge of dreaming when the brain lets go, when it stops its scheming, our blood runs slow… Then the heart speaks clearly of the things it knows, things it brought so dearly at...

Gratitude…here at home our faith dwindlespolitical division causes tensions to kindle -we should never forgetwho stands at the door -who shields us with armorand shall forever more…

Everything in creation has its appointed painter or poet and remains in bondage like the princess in the fairy tale ’til its appropriate liberator comes to set it free.

The Waterfall and the Sea””Her love and passion are a waterfall, fed from the wellspring of her heart,gently tumbling into a pool, preparing herself to share her gifts.His passion and love are like the sea,...

I used all my potential and all my talents and pushed myself to the limit. I could not have fought any harder.

As Raimbaut dragged a dead man along he thought, ‘Ohcorpse, I have come rushing here only to be dragged along by theheels like you. What is this frenzy that drives me, this mania forbattle and...

It…whatever ‘it’ is, has swallowed me and I lie here in the pit of its cold dark stomach being eaten alive by its bile and I…I don’t even know if I want to be saved.

The Inner Self…What makes us who we areshould be glorifiedpersonifiedand sung unto the stars!

Don’t use a five-dollar word when a fifty-cent word will do.

The young student sits with his head bent over his books, and his mind straying in youth’s dreamland; where prose is prowling on the desk and poetry hiding in the heart.

6 months, 2 weeks, 4 days,and I still don’t know which month it was thenor what day it is now.Blurred out linesfrom hangovers to coffeeAnother vagabond lost to love.4am alone and on my way.These are...

When the others were picked up and walked home by friends or fathers or best friend’s sisters,I was the kid in a grey hoodie, walking with the poets, the singers, the thinkers, and I was...

And I howled at that swarm and the crops and the sky, and the stars should have quit because there weren’t no reason to be shining.

…wisely mingled poetry and prose.

Meadow’s Waltz…the meadow had becomeher sanctuary of spiritoffering an escape from a painno child should ever endureforeboding clouds began…

Poetry is more than a form of art. It’s a vibration and a pulsing heart. Whether it’s sour or whether it’s sweet. It can give you strength no one can defeat

Mirabelle sat down, dropping into the cushions like a ball being caught in a large leather glove.

Their lives have a size and a shape now. Estha has his and Rahel hers.Edges, Borders, Boundaries, Brinks and Limits have appeared like a team of trolls on their separate horizons. Short creatures with long...

… because one day, maybe one day, if I learned how to write clear enough, sing loud enough, be strong enough, I could explain myself in a way that made sense and then maybe one...

I can’t allow what we learned in English composition to disrupt the sound and rhythm of the narrative.

I can’t be expected to produce deathless prose in an atmosphere of gloom and eucalyptus.

You and I, under the moonlight, together until the stars don’t shine any more… The world slips away as we dance in the fire as we had never yet danced…in anticipation of the red flame,...

…unquestioning automatonsblindly marching to the beat -an eerie crunching soundhoards of shuffling feet…(from silent moments)

The displacement of water is equal to the something of something.

You know, my dear, it’s only doing you harm to write vers libre. After you have been writing strict, rhyming verse for about 10 years it will be time to venture on the free sort....

I am running and singing and when it’s raining I’m the only one left on the open street, smiling with my eyes fixed on the sky because it’s cleaning me. I’m the one on the...

There’s a reason humans peg-out around eighty: prose fatigue. It looks like organ failure or cancer or stroke but it’s really just the inability to carry on clambering through the assault course of mundane cause...

Watch me go. Watch me. Because you said i couldn’t. Because you thought I wouldn’t. Go on, cry now. Cry.

Butterfly KissesAged imperfectionsstitched upon my faceyears and years of wisdomearned by His holy grace.Quiet solitude in a humble homeall the family scattered nowlike nomads do they roam.Then a giftsent from abovea memorypure and tangiblewrapped in...

Take care of the sense and the sounds will take care of themselves.