A poem. — I am an individual, See the company I keep — Individuals, like me Hiding between herds, A motley of moving figures in thick coats. As an individual, I am not shaken by their rustling noise, So long as I might continue to illustrate in silence That cross-hatched image — The imperfect one…

A poem. — I face the shadows, Their faces rising from quicksand, And their voices, Psithurisms in the dark. I face the telling of their midnight stories, Fear — A beleaguered imagination, Their faces dovetailing with the woods that I’ve left behind. I must listen to their stories of boldness, The bravery of women who’ve succumbed, Or of men and what they’ve had to lose, Eyes open, ears set free,

There existed a past. A sedulous history, An empyrean future, A promise from God To be led into the present: A profligate freedom, A motionless turn of the table, A possibility upon cracked lips. The present, A diving into the deep, With but the vestiges of youth, And some sort of immaculate miracle. At present, There is lack of a future, for nothing is really promised Like the words from a man’s lips

A poem. — Happiness bears no certainty, Prolix words Stretching on and on — That special eviternity. Chimerical. Palpable. Longings that stretch from one’s moon-face. Happiness bears no certainty, And maybe I demur against the future, Where certainty is But a tenuous figment of imagination, And I, Remaining moon-faced as ever, Am but a young girl, with a hope. There is no happiness, no certainty,

She spreads the smooth curtains, Strange, The feeling of glass cold from snow. A tough cup of coffee to her lips, Steaming hot, And the puzzle of roofs unhinged. Unsettled. A picture misbegotten by reality, Beset by its consequences… Of being away from home, Where piping-hot breakfast Contrasts against wintry sky; Where puzzles of roofs Contrast against Cloudy daylight, flooding Existence. Strange, To be a number in a pointillist

“The world is made up of times and places — any time can be yours, any place can be yours, too. It’s all about looking for our time and place in this world.” The times and places that comprise our world can give us a sense of meaning. For as…

A poem. — To forget— What is the meaning? Lollygagging in mud, Shopping malls, Old cinemas… To hear loud and plangent blues From an old recording, To walk amongst crowds, Sybarites, Cognoscenti To look into the doyenne’s Promising eyes. What does it mean— To walk past the apogee Of a romantic film, Into the quiet world Of endings, Toward a scattershot Of memories… Through shopping malls, But reaping nothing, Through a mirrorless

Working on ourselves is a process worth enjoying. — There’s a feeling after doing something productive, where, even for a moment you feel like you’ve climbed up a mountain to its peak. Working on something, in this case, working on ourselves, is an action that brings us our own kind of affirmation. …

Anxiety is something we all experience, to some extent. If you ever find yourself in an anxious state of mind, maybe the first thing you need to tell yourself is that, like many common things, it’s something that can be dealt with. It could be one of two things: “everyday…