When the hush first sparks—
skin kindles skin,
a struck match in the midnight orchard;
sap races, petals burn, hunger sings in the bone.
Each heartbeat is a drum that forgets tomorrow.
In this bright furnace nothing exists but flame,
and even the flame forgets itself.

Then the music of weathering:
two currents curl into one river,
water tasting water, naming itself anew.
Morning’s hush fills the house like warm bread;
fingers trace a map across shoulders—
soft cartography of laughter, salt, and sleep.
Yet feelings, like tides, lean on the moon:
one silver change in the sky and they withdraw,
leaving bright shells that crack between bare feet.

So the hands learn truer speech than the mouth.
They lift the roof beam,
gather the shattered glass,
teach the garden to dream in winter.
The pulse no longer begs for thunder;
it steadies into the simple rhythm of roofs that do not leak,
of chairs pulled close against the long wind.
Here, devotion is measured in how quietly
a door closes at midnight,
how surely a light is left burning.

And farther—beyond the orchard and the river—
wide night opens its immeasurable wings.
I know no country but this joining
where the border of “I” thins to breathable air,
and your palm on my chest beats inside my wrist,
and your lashes settle when my own eyes surrender to dream.
In that vastness, pulse answers pulse,
the way constellations borrow fire from the same black silk:
each spark fiercely itself, all sparks the same blaze.

Yet there arrives a season
when the most faithful act is distance:
to loosen the knot, step back from the blossoming tree
so its roots may drink unshadowed rain.
Care is a silent pilgrim—it walks whether watched or not.
I carry the thought of your morning across whole deserts of days,
weighing each step against the color of dawn.
If the path that guards your sunrise curves away from mine,
I will still kindle lanterns along it,
warming myself by their light even as I vanish beyond the dunes.

Still, the circle confounds—
what pours from the heart also fills it,
the well deeper for each bucket drawn.
To hold another’s becoming is to steady one’s own—
stone lending strength to stone in the arch.
And the great engine of the stars is nothing more
than this relentless giving:
fusion that spends itself into radiance,
glad of the heat, indifferent to applause.

When the storm of wanting passes,
what remains is the quiet mast that outlasts tempests—
wood seasoned by countless dawns,
firm enough to tie a sail to,
wise enough to release the rope
when the wind turns toward a farther shore.

-- Jeffrey Phillips Freeman

Another poem I just wrote as I reflect on the meaning of love.

I arrived to you as a harbor battered by its own waves,
salt‑scored, muttering to gulls that never answered.
In your quiet courtyard my storms fell silent—
we planted lemons in the clay and their small roots
took hold the way forgiveness does: unseen, unhurried.

I walked the corridors of myself, lantern lifted,
so the dark could witness me no different
than the noon‑bright street.
Each shadow I carried bent to its knees,
learning the discipline of light.
I saw the old currents of impulse go quiet,
not hushed by force but eased by vigilance.

I traced the geometry of hearts:
how delicately they tilt toward ruin.
Still I braced their trembling arches
with words braided from breath and vow,
hoisting strangers’ mornings on my shoulders
though their replies fell cold and unyielding.

A silence grew intelligent between us—
naming absences, polishing regret—
the error named is already softer.
I studied its chipped syllables like a scholar
rubbing dust from a shard of amphora,
footnoting apology upon each fracture
forging now a lexicon of healing.

I stood naked before my own pulse,
counting each weakness the way a diver
counts breaths before the plunge:
one for fear, one for pride,
another for the hot coal of a hasty tongue.
Yet I did not turn away; the sea was instruction,
its pressure a promise to surface true.

And I loved—God, I loved—
with a rope that had no knots for pulling away.
I gave breadth, I gave shelter,
but would not barter the marrow of my tenderness
for hands careless with its fragility.
When neglect arrived dressed as devotion,
I slipped my name from that weave of thorns.

The horizon blistered, then brightened—
metal sundered into light.
I gathered yesterday’s shards,
turned them until they glittered,
and stitched them into the lining of the coat I would wear to leave.

So here is my leaving:
not a retreating tide, but a river
reaching its mouth—salty, yes,
yet opening to a vaster blue.
I walk, cedar‑scented, luminous with bruise,
my pockets filled with unspent dawns.
I call this heartbreak, and I call it victory,
for I am the man who learned
to guard the world from his own storms,
to stand readable as daylight,
to lift, to care, to cradle, to mend,
to declare his cracked places,
to sprint toward the roar in the dark,
to sharpen his wondering mind,
and to love without chains—
while never again accepting iron
masquerading as a kiss.

I keep the lemons thriving.
Their blossoms remind the night air
that bitterness, too, can flower.

-- Jeffrey Phillips Freeman

Been a few months since my last poem, just had too many emotions to express them any other way this evening. I hope you all enjoy.

When the earth held its breath,
and the trees stopped speaking in green,
I found your shadow pressed into the silence—
not like absence,
but like the memory of warmth
left in a chair
after someone has risen.

I did not call your name.
It was already there,
inscribed beneath the skin of rain,
folded into the hush of wheat fields
bowing under the weight of their gold.
Even the wind carried you—
not as sound,
but as the echo of longing
before the voice has formed.

There were no angels.
Only the dust rising
from the soles of tired workers
who knew love by its weight,
not its wings.
And still, the sun leaned low,
willing to touch the dirt
just to reach us.

You were the breath I took
before understanding what it meant
to be hollow
and still full.
You were the salt in my wound
that sang.

Oh, what a terrible, beautiful thing—
to be stitched into another’s silence.
To be the ache
someone calls home.
To carry within you
the whole cathedral of their absence,
lit by nothing
but the soft, persistent flame
of remembering.

And still—
I would carry it.
The ache, the salt,
the tender ruins of your voice
crumbling somewhere
between my ribs.

I would carry it
into the next life
and the next,
and the next—
not because I must,
but because
even grief
was more beautiful
with you in it.

-- Jeffrey Freeman

A poem I just wrote as I sit here missing Noi Noi. She is so far away its hard, but I hope to see her soon.

Giving part of one's self so another can thrive,
no greater a gift could I ever contrive.
Thus my soul I do give to your worthy embrace,
to an endless quest, for your fears to displace.
Oh!
To give you a world where your happiness thrives,
that fate I shall seek through both of our lives.

For once the great goal is no longer self pride,
the entire vast universe does stand by our side.
Not a fault can we have that we don't overcome,
the whole of our parts is the lesser to our sum.
Ah!
To make us a life where our true selves do reign,
what a glorious cause I shall never need feign.

So here we do stand with our flaws to be seen;
the trust in each other does wash it all clean.
My love for myself is my love for you too,
for your love is my love, we both can imbue.
See!
I need naught from you, for its part of myself,
and to give from that part only strengthens ourself.

But what if the chaos does haunt us one night?
Our blessed holy guards will then give us true sight.
For chaos is born of illusion's worst fear,
be true to ourselves so it shall never be near.
Eh.
The storm was a dream, not a thing to contend,
I have found us clear skies that never will end.

If the body only gives what it will there receive,
then the mind will be hollow with no hope to relieve.
Thus I use all I have just to light up your eyes,
because I wish you to live, to reach past compromise.
So!
To bring you to life is all I ever did want,
your soul just to smile, not a trophy to flaunt.

Take all that I give, because you give it to me,
since two are the one it brings both of us glee.
Consume all my love, never fear you'll do pain,
for truth of one's self is never heart's bane.
Ah-ha!
The key to our world is the truth held inside,
So forever will I seek ourselves to confide.

--Jeffrey Phillips Freeman

A poem I wrote inspired by Amanda. She has really opened up with me lately, and me to her. I'm glad I get to talk to her as often as I do, she inspires great poems. So this poem talks about finding ones "Holy Guardian Angel" or in occult terms "one's true self". The conversations is directed both at Amanda, and at my HGA simultaneously.

There in the living wood,
I found the moon,
and she gave herself to me.

She is mine,
though not to be owned.
Sitting high in the heavens,
radiating her grace for all to love.
Though still all the more mine.

All I knew was emptiness,
knowing of nothing,
blind to my existence.
Never seeing color.
Never seeing white, nor black.

Then,
there in the heavens,
there she hung,
the newborn moon.
Born to an endless darkness,
my world was given contrast.
Where once there was nothing
now lay mysterious shadows,
hinting at distant memories.
Her beauty crisp and clear,
merely a sliver,
a faint whisper,
a hint of her full glory,
yet glowing brightly.

She taught me.
Taught me shapes, lines, form.
Taught me light and dark.
She gave me a world beyond myself.
Gave me a reason to open my eyes.
A reason to be alive.

But her radiance grew,
and the stars themselves did envy her.
Yet she gave of herself freely,
turning envy to love.
So that they did dance,
the stars with the moon,
happily overhead,
for all to see.

And as blissful love shined down,
a pale blue earth was brought to my eyes,
giving my world substance.
Once all that was real hung distantly out of reach,
yet now it surrounds me,
giving me purpose,
revealing the depth of my kingdom.

In every crack there I find her,
reminding me she will always be there,
always sharing herself,
always lighting my path,
never letting go.

And though her light may wane,
it is never extinguished.
For all I need do is look to her,
and she will wax full again.

I no longer fear the night,
because the moon is mine.

--Jeffrey Phillips Freeman

This is a poem I just wrote about Amanda. I was feeling inspired and only wrote it over about 15 minutes. But I'm just glad poetry is coming so easy to me lately! I will be curious to hear what people think of it.