Into the Light

I always wanted my own garden

but the sun never shined
in our corner of the World
as I sipped starlight 
that escaped through the cracks

and swam in syllables;
thoughts dancing in stanzas- 
the only glimmer in these eyes;

weighted whispers

just waiting to spill 
upon twilight’s canvas;


my favorite quiet skies.

So I flew, 

in one perfect moment
within those same stars

to nurture my spirit,
and my very own garden
watching petals bloom

like it’s the first day of Spring.



Clinging To Grace

On those days

when earthly things drain my spirit

and feelings spill like rainwater


into this gaping hole 

where a heart once was,


I force the whispers out;

unsung psalms from a lethargic spirit

clinging to grace.


In this poetic hour,

syllables, tangled 

with lumps in my throat;


nothing but a sigh to speak,


perhaps it is time to just listen

to love, to laughter,

to any little thing that matters

or mattered once

when moons were full

and tiny feet tiptoed into my arms

dancing all the pain away.


I have seen faces come and go

stealing pieces of tenderness


every time.


There is however, one constant;

a light that burns in darkest hours

and I will crawl to the ends of the Earth


to feel the flame.



Law of Gravity



I can still touch 

crystal moments of surrender

to a white horse ending 


that was only the beginning;


Fairy tales often begin

with a simple whisper of wish


on a night when constellations

shine glimmer of possibility

upon unsuspecting believers 

of fate.


Let’s do an even trade:


your doubt 

for my naive expectations.


We can meet in the middle

of a once skeptical galaxy

and let gravity pull you


into me. 


I Am Starting To Hate Red

I could paint the walls pastel
and spiral syllables
into a staircase of blue

for you,

but, there are days
when sunshine is not enough
and even rain has a scent 
of unfinished sentences

waiting for worries 
to stop spinning.

I am starting to hate red
and the way it turns flutter
into steady beats of loudness.

He said we could just turn it off
and then, he whispered.

It was lovely sounds of blue;

it was sunshine, rain, soft 
clandestine constellations waltzing circles
around an envious half-moon;

shimmer dancing between lashes
of a goodnight kiss.



Our syllables met

for just one waltz


trading sighs for kisses


and if I could write music,

you would have been the chorus.


Brush between my fingers,

I studied every tremble 

when your eyes met mine,


and colors flowed

as every sorrow dissipated 


like smoke rings

into auras 

of our blue, blue day


leaving us dangling


from constellations,

like past participles

connected in the beauty


of only one sentence.


Blowing Out the Candles


One more year and I am still waiting;


checking the mailbox for a card

(even though I know you don’t have my address,)

and the phone for missed calls,


hoping for some storybook reunion.


How many letters marked “return to sender”

must one receive before the dark realization 

strikes a cord 


in the head of this dreamy-eyed

fatherless fool?


I can take the candles from the cake ,

one     by     one

and count the memories


without you in them,

wash dishes so tears

turn to soap scum

before anyone notices

the faded smile 


and close thoughts away in the cupboard

as if nothing ever happened.



On these nights 
when words steal my sleep;
syllables fluttering in

like fireflies in waiting,

is there a chance
that a heart cannot hold
enough breath for poetic sentiment

when passion seems to flow
from every crevasse;
covering her canvas 
with much more
than tomorrow’s sweet, sweet muse?

With you, 
I could run through wildflowers
until I am out of breath,
for, who is to say that winter
has to be a cold place;

love, a blooming spring;
vows mirrored in whispered prayer
as petals fall gracefully;

two sets of footprints in wet sand.