With a little help from my friend’s didgeridoo…

Synchronicity. I post a poem on the grace which befalls the solitary traveller when he encounters fellow seekers of truth and I am blessed with this tale from Verse Herder. yes, my heart is renewed.


Traveling alone is more beneficial for the soul. It’s a rare luxury to experience life, especially in the hills, without the influence of human drama. People make for lousy travel companions anyway.

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I pause
high above the world of human strife
to look about the mountain I call life
and in the air where breath is rare and clear
I notice other seekers venture near
A wave, a smile, a moment’s eye
and then their journeys pass me by
but in the silence that ensues
I find my heart has been renewed.

tio stib, 2015

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New Dreams For Old

delicious imagery in a powerful poem by a provocative poetess. what is life without dreams, both shattered and sought for?


Found him on the highway,
trading new dreams for old;

his well-worn dream,
that once hung from a star,
lay half buried in the dust;
some big parts broken,
some little parts hurt;

pictures moved
in his rheumy eyes
washed out and creased,
his calloused hands, cradling time,
snagged hope’s fragile wings;

take my rotting dream, he cried
I’m all out of spirit!
give me one built of that
which makes flowers
bloom each spring,
fresh as the scent
of the sleeping earth
when the first raindrop sings;

take my dream and nurse it well,
make of it what you will,
it was born in a storm,
and raised on a whim,
just be gentle with it.

April:#14- 08/30

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The Comfort of Complacency

is it worth it
to have fleeting comfort
while the self
slips away
in the shadow
of complacency

is it worth it
to pretend life is good
as the price for love
to force a smile
when the heart
is screaming

can I truly exist
with the constant
drumming of defeat
deafening my spirit
killing the will
to be

what will it take
for my soul
to stand
the right to live
the truth

as I stare
into oblivion
these thoughts
keep me

tio stib, 2015

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Brewing Gold

I am a wordsmith. This man is a poet.


Every night, I looked up
and words slithered down
glistening arches of cloud,
indulgent stars
dotted every ‘i’,
moods bathed in the wind,
like virgin brides,
throwing bouquets of orange and blue;
the shivering alchemy
of soul and silver moonlight
bubbled into another golden dawn.

Every night, I looked up,
and the sky wrote my poems,
the sky that could have touched me,
the sky that could have loved me,
the sky with cold arms, just out of reach.
So I sat upon a toadstool cloud,
tepid suns warming my feet,
bird shadows fluttering across my page,
my back against the curve of the moon,
and begged the earth to be my muse.

But this earth, this old earth is dying;
her soft light entombs
another young shroud
where there should be no more;
along arches of starving bellies,
through red tongues of gunfire,
among pitiless human hearts
and gluttonous…

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