I don’t know if anyone is out there listening
You may think I haven’t been posting as often, or as well as I had been.
You’ve just been getting the odd piece that doesn’t fit.
I have been working on a book form of poems that I can sell here,
So you can, if you like, see my pomes in another way, surrounded by the Paraphernalia that I would rather have there.
But maybe the primary reason for this is, that if I can hold a pamphlet in my hands which I have made, it would help me to feel better about what I have been doing.
Writing poetry by yourself and rarely talking to anyone about it can be lonely, but the main problem is people mistake stillness and inwardness for lack of drive. Meanwhile, subtle transformations of great beauty are going off in my head. Art doesn’t have to be for others.
I have written more poems in the past five months than in the prior several years – it took finding the modern Anglophone poets of mid to late twentieth century to knock me from a particular groove I’d been riding around in. I realised that we can still (and always, in fact) do interesting things in short form poetry. I also realised that modernism is exciting and nowhere near as difficult as it has been made to seem. Both to write, and to read. [Or, maybe I reached a critical mass where it started to make the sense it has the potential to make].
So, my only audience, be on the lookout, if you like. It may take a year or more, but it should appear. If it doesn’t, I’ll just upload all of the poetry here.

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Send your life out in multiple directions like a galaxy shedding stars. Always come back to hope and try to thrive. All posts, (poems, stories, essays, etc.) here are composed by my hand, unless noted otherwise. Please ask if you'd like to use one.

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