You have entered the realm of a writer.

Welcome to A Writer's Landscape!

You have entered the realm of my mind where words play with the fabric of our existence. This is the map of my imagination: the very foundations of inspiration, musing, and thought splayed for your wandering eyes. Dive deep into the tides of these forces and experience my reality, my fantasy, my world; and if you should be so inclined, share your words with this land.

Peace and Love!

J Hart F

Friday, September 23, 2011

Love's Terms

Speak to me.
Tree whispers leaves beyond a window
inaudible at telling... Weather
It speaks kindly
through panes rustling 
in time.
Sun shades block grassy
palanquins of Love.
Two stand before it... there
Unable to find the door
in balanced restraint
of lost.
Ever on and on
Foot-Steps taste earth bitter
selfish owned ... heir
of discriminating absences
through Strings of hearts
caught together.
Speak to me.
Simple words describe their hands
reaching to enter... Other
Within, without, their eyes
Opened already and regard
Chaotic Order.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Building of Love

He swims with gentle strokes to find a truth
as strings unhooked, so taught, so merged in dreams
that spiraling south to meet ocean’s youth
bring words once sought to strike decidedly.
She flows in fashion, bright flicker of flame,
and boils plasmaticly the underbrush:
black billows top gold-red petals and blame
a harsher sense which burns unseen: we hush.
They hear of high all airy shelves adrift
and draw the breaths whole heartedly to self,
with sighs these words align the soul to shift
once whisked in form surely bring endless wealth.
     We stand so firm and see this love played out
     from distant shade to solid words about.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

To think that fourteen could bring such magic

To think that fourteen could bring such magic
To mold a form that could not be without
skyless plunders fraught less gentle tragic
in heart song words the Muse did know about.
For I learn now the how of forming it,
the black enscrawled by way of cloudless sight
like birds who cry the beat of our sonnet
in childish, moonlit bleeding; like the night
I'm born as old awaiting some golden
Part within an other 'pon this whiteness:
The face of Her as made by Sol just when
I discover one who makes me the best.
I pen to see his face a bloom within
And eat the love that's served as sav'ry din.