Blowing Kisses


There is something
to be said for silence;
tongue tied, breath of quiet
when glance meets gaze,
touch brings sigh
and all of our senses


Once, we sung lullabies
under clandestine constellations
making wishes on each one
until you came
and I tiptoed to the door
greeting you with eyes
that said all you needed to know.
On bended knee,
you called my name
from mountains
and I answered,


Who does one thank
for the blessings
of us?
Faith will not allow me
to believe that fate alone
was the light in this path;
this ride down an unpaved,
but golden road.
Laughter carries me
and my heart
over hills and valleys
into his arms,
all the while
blowing kisses
to the sky.



When Letters Begin To Fade

I wish I could find the syllables
to express sorrow;

these phrases
fluttering from my chest
like a thousand fireflies
fighting for some space to glow
for you.

As we turn more silver,
wise, whispered, loving things,
devotion is the only thing gold

that remembers to stay.

I will bring you
every crystal constellation
wrapped in ribbons
of moon-laced shimmer
and if ever you forget this melting;
this affection that lingers
long after letters begin to fade,

take this sweetest lullaby with you.
to sleep,
so that nothing but dreams


two symmetric hearts.


The Reality of a Sunrise

I only saw his eyes;

this gentle soul
legs tangled,
head wrapped in dreams
lost somewhere
between daylight and dusk;

a once clean shaven,
smiling thing

who slipped between the cracks.

The whispers, mumbling,
grumbling of passers’ by
awakened him,

but, there was never a grimace;
not a word spoken

only a smile-
an innocent curl of lips
from one content

just to see the sun.

I looked at him, unshaven,
dirt smudged face
in tattered clothes
and worn out shoes

but, I only saw his eyes;
his loving, peaceful,
innocent eyes,

and I smiled back.



By December

By December


In May
rain tiptoed out
as pretty peonies
blew about in the
after-shower. It was
only proper
that I should meet you
in my perfect season
when petals bloom
at first sight-
pink as the possibility
of love.


was warm, this Texas sun
like my blush, born
of something heart melting.
We thought that summer
would never come and the cry
we worried about never fell;
as most perfect days go,
it shined. There were lilies
falling softly before the train,
Delicate words vowed
behind veiled whispers
only lovers could hear
and adhere to.


By December,
feelings came
and never went
since you took my hand;
never softer than now
when perfect mornings
are the ones
beginning next to you.
Seasons change
like butterflies
in this metamorphosis,
but, my dreams never have.
Your laughter fills this room
and my face lights it up.
Flutters still happen here
when those brown eyes
meet with mine.




I have

so many things to be afraid of;
too many syllables, unsaid.
There are
times I turn my head,
close my eyes
and try to wish bad thoughts away
like those magical moments
you see in Disney Piksar pictures,


these scenes are too graphic
for animation
and too many already
pretend not to see.

If I

could take away the tears
spilled on rumpled paper
found after the fact,
carry one child to a Mother’s arms
and watch love spill
onto braided tresses far from home;
nurture one forgotten friend to health
before life breaks its heart,


I could relieve my beating chest
from so much knotted sorrow
with no where to seep,
fall asleep, and


I could breathe
and just




Asking Apparitions To Dance

Clouds gather to mourn
amidst monuments,
stone memories
and embedded tears;

pitter patter of hoofs
and heartbreak
sound echoes

through the elements.

Flowing tresses, tamed
as figures immortalized under stars
and bending moon cries spill

upon cement fabrications

of daring.
Dancers swirl in colors
like rainbows
asking apparitions to dance;
one angel, exalted
in the center of souls

asking passers-by to reminisce
finding comfort in being the scenery;
the chosen one, left behind

keeping heroes
and their history





Once, love was scribblings;
dreams penned in loops

swirling in and out of the lines-
hearts drawn on foggy windows
and carved in sand,

stars to wish on,
petals to pluck:

“he loves me,
he loves me not”

He was only a pronoun
created from my perfect adjectives
and I was only a dreamer
with a pen.

There were rivers and mountains
in between fantasy
and fate

and so we climbed,
swam seas of doubters,

and met in the middle.

That perfect key fit
and now he and I

are us;

still swimming, still climbing