by Poetry

Terrifying, how much poetry
  one can find, if you look
     in the right graves.


show me nightmares
needed to understand
the beauty of poetry / the soul of verse
and I will dream them;

under northern clouds, I will dream
the rare beauty of a clear night sky
until all the stars go out
and there is nothing left;

under nothingness, I will dream
of the great, forgotten jewels;
glistening dew on an evening dress.

Show me, again, Ezra, mad Ezra,
the majesties and freedoms
of this madness;
show me them in dying,
if not in death –
in living,
if not in life.

We are dying, you and I,
(or dead already) and,
there are poets out there,
living adequate lives; creating
reflections and pressed ashes
of the most exquisite beauty –
and there are those, living
truly wonderful moments,
truly beautiful nights,
without writing
a single word.

Free eBooks

modern poetry
Carey Poet


I have no song to sing
knowing that songs last forever
almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
beating silently at the door
of eternity

Writing Verse

why did it work on you?
never even mentioned it
when you smiled, laughed
at cruel humour –
touched your fingers
to my arm

A Cheap Black Rosary

when I wasn’t looking for a teacher
she arrived
with her casual blasphemies
wearing the crucifix between her breasts –
cheap, plywood, & with her sweat
the black dye trickled

Night Terrors

When Nox and I go panting beneath, we
have asked the same black questions;