Rhythm of Stars

I taste syllables in my sleep
and make toasts to words,
stumbling in adjectives of love

blossoming like daffodils
in the middle of Spring.

drunk on alliteration,
this word-hungry poet
clinging to every line
like its the first,
or last time he speaks.

Time whispers and limbs tremble
like Winter, then bloom again
with glimmer of stars

rich as diamonds in lovers’ eyes.

Light pulls branches in
and grows dreams
in good soil,
roots

keeping spirits
intertwined.

Oh, the rhythm,
the assonance
when his and mine

become ours.

~

a Novel Idea

I will never apologize
for alliteration
or stop breathing

after syllables

reveling
for your attention.

You can word count
in November
and chalk up chapters
one through five
as beginnings of new best seller,

and I will concentrate
on the beauty of constellations

in April,

and twenty words that bring you
out of the darkness
and to your knees,

if it takes me fifty tries
to woo your senses.

There is something beautiful
about an unfinished poem
swirling in my sleep,
churning thoughts like butter

more delectable with age.

Pass me another dollop
of inspiration,
and I will fill your plate
with a dish sweeter
than a craving,

something more savory
than any adjective

ever whispered from your lips.

~

the Color of Clouds

We dance to music in our own heads
and smile at a thin crescent moon
without worry of tomorrow;
dreams in the mist of layers
of transparent pearl clouds that sing.
From up there, the ocean must be blue-gray
with anticipation, swirling reasons to gaze
upon silent obscurities while winds
whisper away any doubts of us.

There can never be enough stars
for those who love the light.
I have seen those four walls
and the madness behind them
where darkness took presidence
birdsong only in my heart
without a feathered promise to cling to,

but now, this sky, not jaded;
this iris canvas where souls can soar,
spread wings and flutter periwinkle thoughts
without question; this sky I can finally touch
as favored as the brush of his fingers
feeling the jubilance in my face,
eyes that sparkle steel blue to viridian
in the presence of such an angel.

~

If Not For Flowers

An engagement of vocabulary
rolling sweetly off of tongues;
syllables coupled in undertones,
gently timed like a ballerina’s steps,
ethereal pieces sewn into cadence
sipped and soaked into every pore
of some poet’s mere existence.

If not for flowers, where would we find art
flowing like tumbleweeds across barren plains
shaky adjectives reverberating from willows
into the very beat of a breaking heart
just aching for the revelation
of another perfect sunrise-
another misty eyed ocean to paint.

There is no time for sleeping
with trains to remind her of those last days
when he still had warm hands and dreams
of one more walk in the sand, dance of hair
on autumn nights when moons were full
and treetops were the highest thing he could see.
She smiled when one lone star fell;
fireflies circling in a collective whisper, goodbye.

~

Blues and an Overflowing Tip Jar

Walking passed windows-
a fogged up and dusty portrait
of some white shirt, black tie event;
smoke swirling someone’s life story
from a Steinway piano, each note
another semblance to drink to.
A lady at the corner table,
all too familiar with his gaze
as memories roll down cheeks,
she mumbles under her breath,
“What a waste of good lipstick.”

Scenes play out quietly
from behind stained glass;
embroidered hankies lending calm
to stirred up cocktail of dreams
in watered down versions
of he said, she said ramblings
under subtle Friday night moons
with old demons, making new friends.

This rain, this rain drowning pasts-
feet shuffling through puddles
kicking bruised egos to the curb,
slinging blame like leftovers
to anyone who will listen.
Minds can be small, hearts smaller
as battered souls keep searching,
searching, for a soft place to land.

~

Soliloquy at the End of Autumn

Wind whips through barren places
where feelings once danced
and pretty pictures painted smile lines

on worried faces.

Nothing is colder than winter chill
when desolate moments turn to hours
and days fly like wings to sun.

Call me martyr, shedding skin,
breaking from a swaddling season;

ebb and flow of poetry, unabridged;
enamored whispers seeking blessing
in caress of syllable

making music from common chords-
thoughts taking baby steps
from a place that won’t matter

when the chorus fades to black

and you are left alone
toying with your own heart.

~

the Mystery in Clouds

Funny thing about rain, bittersweet, soaked
through silk shirts and darkened streets
hiding what is transparent in sunshine
and talks across the table at breakfast;
glances between sips and unread newspapers.
There is mystery in clouds, swirling ache
of white laced commitments lying in a drawer
next to a music box playing Louie Armstrong.
I caught a sadness in fog, the looming sensibility
that I am the weeping willows I thought were lost,
the initials we never carved, and the sand
between my children’s toes falling like roses
past their blooming; love, all wrapped up in a sigh.

~

Softening the Lines

Bring me flowers,
to wear, now
on skipping, laughter in my hair
days. You always give me pink
for symmetry
and the sweetness of you

with me.

Kiss my lips while they are warm
inviting melt,
pulsating, petal silk skin;
your hands, turning winter
into spring.

These autumn days swirl past
with cold looming, sweet
but never fearful
with your fingers softening lines,

tracing life,

reviving breaths
even after I take my last.

~

Shadow

Golden
with the excitement
of dandelions

has become settled and soothing
like cream

with a purity
that only authentic alliteration
could cultivate
and culture tiptoes in
behind

like I always do
following ~~~
with a swirling skirt

of envy.

~

On a Night Without Stars

There is so much more to love
than anyone could ever conceive of.

Hands, reaching out to help you up
when you think you cannot take
one . more . step,

arms that find their way
around a fractured mess of a girl
once smiling, now sobbing thing
curled up in a conundrum,
stoop, and pick up the pieces,
(never complaining,)

of something he never broke.

Ears that have listened
to the same sad story, time after time
knowing there will be
the same nagging {three letter question}
in the end

and nothing to say

to stitch up a shredded heart
left by someone with only a gene
and a name ~
in common.

A voice
with a whisper
louder to the spirit than any sound,

but God.

A smile that illuminates
every inch of her sky
on a night without any stars,

and those eyes,

those eyes that even without words
can make all of the ugliness disappear

until the next time.

~

Behind Lace Undertones

If not for this breeze,
this flurry speaking in rhymes;
syllables calling my name
with scent of gardenia
and nectar of untasted fruits,

I may not have pulled back the lace

from curtains that blocked the sweetness
of an enticing morning sun.

I could see dandelion fluff
float past my window,
softly caressing urge
to blow into waiting skies.

Like watching a river ripple past
without knowing where,
eyes sought peace

and bare feet yearned for dewy grass,
legs brushed with sway of petals,
skirt and tears, flowing

as I ran to you.

~

Synopsis of Moonlight

To be alone in a breathing atmosphere
with only constellations to confide in;
clandestine dreams parading like thoughts
with no where to venture; insignificant gestures
keeping time with incoherent, sleepy syllables
searching for a misplaced Sunday morning muse.
This moon has never been such a light to bathe in
when twilight comes in gentle, healing doses
sharing glimpses with a Winter spirit seeking Spring.

~