Tag Archives: poetry



When it’s gray I still feel the sun,

Like a warmth that washes over me

Rays like golden fingers

Even when the day is done

Embraced in tender care

I’m reminded of the night

Piercing, almost, your rod of starburst light

Filtering thru windows shaded

Rolling thru a hazy vapor

Heating my flesh to heights

I never knew existed

Spent, like yesterday’s dollar,

Sweat pouring from my brow

The secrets of the Garden

Belong to me now


(photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/33143245@N02/15761596795″>Hawt Pink</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;)

Into the Blue




Pigtails and polyester skirts, dreams as big as the sky

Believed she’d ride in hot air balloons, meet the perfect guy

Rose-colored glasses, worn until her eyes shaded pink

A grown woman now, in a dark corner with a drink, unsatisfied

To ride the tide of someone else’s wave, embittered

Shadows follow her from her heart’s shallow grave;


Singularly unable to understand her metered path, distance

Between the reasons, beyond the reach of her grasp;

An insignificant bubble in a stream of carbonated dreams,

Floating down an open drain to an unforgiving sea



(photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/nomadic_state_of_mind/5158125604/”>NomadicStateOfMind</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;)

In a Poetic Pod




We are among the broken, those defined by a

shattered heart, listless soul; our loneliness,

subtle as the fragrance of Spring,

spreads across the ether; letters of black on

pages of white, rhymes that beat to an unknown

rhythm, graceful almost if not for the truth

of their inability to matter; except to Us,

the jagged edges of our existence

Fit, those of you and those of me,

a bewildered puzzle


What is that you say? No, I am

undefiled in you; no embittered

cry for explanation where our affection

resides, almost Holy in a sacrilegious way;

I’m sorry if I giggle when you tease me…

my joy is in the freedom you provide



(photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/cindeesniderre/8559056240/”>Cindee Snider Re</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;)

Perdu Liaison



Some things aren’t meant to be

As nature often shows

There are no leaves on the winter tree,

No sun where the fern grows

We can want to suffering for one another’s touch

We can say anything, won’t amount to much

Nothing really lost, except a hungry need

Matters little for those who don’t choose love,

Our hearts rarely bleed

You’ll go your way, and I’ll go mine

Little ripples in the water stilled by time

Lamentation, a new fragrance on the wind

An imperfectly perfect pair who only knew ‘the end’


Any Given Saturday




Liquid dreams, she sees sunshine thru a prism

Tiptoes past the moon to dance in the heavens

Her gypsy heart sees the lines, but they blur

The fragrance of the cosmos flavors her universe

Delicate, her confidence, sprouts from a restless seed

Grows into a vine that spreads like an unchecked weed

I thought I caught a glimpse of her in the mirror one day

She winked and she smiled, but continued on her way



(photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/markchadwick/9215209587/”>markchadwickart</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;)

So the Legend Goes…




He’s not so particular when it comes to the female sex, only requiring the usual accoutrements. He likes them in boots, skirts, or jeans. He likes to watch them walk, one of his favorite things. Long hair or short, doesn’t matter.

She can be tall or she can be short, he has affection for all, but some he favors a little more. He acknowledges there is no greater mystery than that of womankind and her gifts to history, how she withstands all that man has applied to her, still smiles and beguiles to rise to her destiny.

He desires and he loves, enthralled with her figure, the way she laughs, and blushes red when he’s with her. There’s nothing more divine than to see her wake from a restful slumber after he feels her shake.

This gift of soft flesh, wrapped in his arms, he’d never let her know he was already torn between her precious quirks he’d so come to admire and a cute young blond whose eyes burn with desire. He found himself in such a difficult place, for the women are a plenty. If he were intended only for one, why on earth are there so many?


(photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/yanivg/3417197925/”>YanivG</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;)

Of Bridges and Bugs




I think about those bridges in Madison County,

about a movie they inspired, about the man and the woman

finding love in one another for a while.


I think about the choices they made.

They both wanted the same thing. He offered her his world,

but she chose her wedding ring.


All the seasons from her life to death,

how many times her heart must have ached

for a man that crossed her path perchance –

It’s not often fate makes a mistake…


I remember she gripped the door handle,

a single life-changing moment of time, and

like a lazy day spent in the sun, she let this one pass her by.


When I was young I judged her harsh, said

she was a fool for letting that man in, that she

deserved the regret of a thousand years;

she should have no rest in her chosen sin.


Now I am of an age – no longer young but not yet old.

Should I be given a taste from her bitter well, would I stay,

be the good wife, in appearance and duty and

do what’s right?


White knuckles grabbing the handle of the door,

would I open it and run into the arms of ‘More;’

or would I sit, pressing bottom to chair,

resign myself to always be there?


Through death or distance or giving up,

through bitterness or fear or the liar’s cup,

through all that there is and all that will be,

Regret washes down with certainty,

so whether to stay or whether to go,

the heart follows love, no matter how far;

one can be free to fly in the dark

or one can be a firefly trapped in a jar



***photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/chanc/430806926/”>Christopher Chan</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a>***

The Reader




Your poetry is not found on the page, within letters

strung together in words that rhyme, hoping for some

understated epiphany or hunting for resonance in the

echo of a student’s cephalic cavern.


Your poetry is in the simplicity

of your touch, in the lines of your



Yours is a poetry of the eyes speaking to my heart,

leaving me to wonder how it ever desired to beat before you



I am your reader, soaking up every nuance, absorbing

your language into my flesh, feeling my marrow

burn with desire for you. I should like to read you



(photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/spiritual_marketplace/2435630377/”>Eddi van W.</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;)

An Autumn Evening





Strings of orange lights

Bitter chocolate on the tongue

Lazy expressions

You and I having a little fun


Teasing, the way we touch

A song plays on the radio

The scent of rain in the air

Glad we’ve got no place to go


Memories birth into time

Gooseflesh on the skin

Dancers on the moon

It’s lovin’ time again



photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/hapal/3078650925/”>hapal</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;

Back and Forth




Thoughts of yesterday creep in as shadows on an autumn afternoon, reaching across a polished floor to crawl up the walls of my mind; yes, you are there, always there. I hear your whispered declarations, I remember the needs and the desires.

We stand in opposite corners of the room, glancing at cobwebs, opening silent mouths, our polite manners and kind gestures let time pass in hours that mock our situation.

Send me a token…my address has not changed.



Photo Credit: photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/_skylark_/2658133515/”>Flóra</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;