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,
Oh, the rhythm,
when his and mine
I will never apologize
or stop breathing
for your attention.
You can word count
and chalk up chapters
one through five
as beginnings of new best seller,
and I will concentrate
on the beauty of constellations
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
and I will fill your plate
with a dish sweeter
than a craving,
something more savory
than any adjective
ever whispered from your lips.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.