O World of many worlds


O World of many worlds, O life of lives,
What centre hast thou? Where am I?
O whither is it thy fierce onrush drives?
Fight I, or drift; or stand; or fly?

The loud machinery spins, points work in touch;
Wheels whirl in systems, zone in zone.
Myself having sometime moved with such,
Would strike a centre of mine own.

Lend hand, O Fate, for I am down, am lost!
Fainting by violence of the Dance…
Ah thanks, I stand – the floor is crossed,
And I am where but few advance.

I see men far below me where they swarm…
(Haply above me – be it so!
Does space to compass-points conform,
And can we say a star stands high or low?)

Not more complex the millions of the stars
Than are the hearts of mortal brothers;
As far remote as Neptune from small Mars
Is one man’s nature from another’s.

But all hold course unalterably fixed;
They follow destinies foreplanned:
I envy not these lives in their faith unmixed,
I would not step with such a band.

To be a meteor, fast, eccentric, lone,
Lawless; in passage through all spheres,
Warning the earth of wider ways unknown
And rousing men with heavenly fears…

This is the track reserved for my endeavour;
Spanless the erring way I wend.
Blackness of darkness is my meed for ever?
And barren plunging without end?

O glorious fear! Those other wandering souls
High burning through that outer bourne
Are lights unto themselves. Fair aureoles
Self-radiated these are worn.

And when in after times those stars return
And strike once more earth’s horizon,
They gather many satellites astern,
For they are greater than this system’s Sun.

~ Wilfred Owen







You want to be a poet?


Then stand in line


Because just like every other damn poet

That ever came before you

You’ll have to write


And Twitter, Tumblr, Fumblr

Whatever, will never save

Your sorry ass


And the Pushcart Prize?

They won’t reward you

For writing a Facebook

Status that’s poetic


And just like

Emily, no one no

Publisher will ever

Come knocking

At your door

Looking for your poems


So listen;


Because there is no new

Jack Kerouac, no new Bukowski

And no new Poe


And Shakespeare?


He threw down his pencil

A longtime ago after Marlowe

Bought the farm


So just like all of the most

Famous poets of old expect

No compliments, no fortune

And no dough and learn how

To live on noodles


And believe me

When I say that

When you tell Mom & Dad

That you want to be

A poet someday?


Don’t expect them to

Embrace you or let you

Ever move back home again


Because remember


That this is the life that you chose

And if you ever finally find

Finally write that one piece

That one amazing epiphany

That says it all and that says

Everything and that has the

Power to knock the world

On its ass?


Then maybe one day

You’ll be able to look

In the mirror and say


It was all worth it.



she dreams in syllabus

“You dream in syllabus, questions. And see the lines that others cannot.
And you waltz across the dance floor of the world with verses and wit.

For this moment
Is honest, simple.

But does not truly exist, or last forever”





No one around

Not a single sound






Just like in the

Movies where

The world has just

Ended, just like

The calm before

The storm


Or maybe just like

Before a

Zombie apocalypse

zombie writer


As I sit here alone

In my apartment wondering

Why I am alone perhaps

The last human being left,

Perhaps some zombie’s

Next big mac & large fries

Tomorrow or maybe even their

Happy meal with a shake.



But what if I too have

Become a zombie

But just don’t know

It yet?


And what if I too am the

First zombie poet ever

Writing the first un-dead

Zombie poem?


Would all the other zombies

Read it? Or relate to it? Would

They understand my zombie

Feelings or sit around at the

Next undead Zombie Poetry

Festival and make snapping sounds

As all their fingers fell off or would

They even attempt to clap with only

Their one good arm left?



And what if I’m not

Really a zombie? Would they all

Just eventually accept me for who I really am?

Or will they all just be exactly like

They were before all this?


Just like all humans with all of their

Anger, jealousy, war & hate, murder

And all their petty unfair advantages

Over their fellow zombie friends?




Because I don’t believe that there

Could possibly be a better,

More loving & caring, kinder

Zombie world or universe

Waiting in the wings, and

I don’t believe that they would

All just be friendly monsters

Who just like to eat vegans,

Republicans or tea party members


Because damn it

I just believe that sometimes

That the world could use a remake

Or perhaps just a reason. And I

Believe that if we just keep

Walking around dead or alive

That eventually one day we will all

Find our way to peace using or eating

Our own brains.

In the end.





Most Great Poets

Most great poems never see the light of day. And most great poets?

They pass away in the night unknown to a world that desperately needs their words.


~ R.M.

shadow poets


The world has been lost. Gone into the unnamed void. We drink our coffee, put on our coats and go to work and sense that something is missing, aware something is no longer there. We have changed. We have forgotten who we are. Or maybe this is just the beginning of becoming, the transformation of the becoming of something new. Find the words unspoken. Find the voice that tells a new story for a new history as yet unwritten. This is your real job. To create that which has not yet been created.


writing block