The Quiet Path

When multi-colored streets
turn black as night
and we sail over white lines
like stars, past the moon,

the journey begins;

the whisper,
louder than echoes
in mountains
turns fears faint;
worries climb into attics
with last year’s dreams.

Not all of us let the light in
when it seeps through shutters
beckoning through every crevasse
to be felt on the face,
burned into skin,
borrowed and bartered
by beggars
to refill a soul.

You can reach him
when your eyes close,
see him in crystal moments
when a swing of thoughts
quiets the aching
and a momentary pause
plays a symphony
of nothing but his laughter
to keep you close.

When you embrace the silence
and lean in
close enough to listen,
close enough to feel the breath;
the breeze of wings brush sleepy eyes
and the giggle of flowers at your feet,

you are home, sweet

(as cliche’ as white picket fence,
rockers on the front porch




The Blue of Silence

Holding hands
without saying a word;
your breaths, muted
by colors of our journey

c a s c a d i n g
around our silhouettes
like clandestine stars
clinging to the blue.

I could even live
in black and white
with you;
hearts red as love
and just as twisted,
looped and weaved;
skipping beats-

flowing, flowering
like never-
ending rivers
of us.




I want to fall in love
with every syllable,
each pause in your breath
soft and smooth
as pen glides down paper.

I want to see where you are going
before you get there,
be there waiting, with bells on
reaching like ivy; like mountains
for the starry ending.

I want to hold your hand,
feel the thumpity-thump
of your passion,
the sting of your pain,
and the unwavering faith
of whatever you believe in.

I want to feel that kiss;
the one you never forgot-
how they got away,
or didn’t
and every moment


I want the simplicity
of your soft side,
the growl of your intensity
I want to know your secrets;
feel your dreams in my veins.
Let your weaknesses waltz with mine
celebrating uniqueness
after the fall.

I want the scent of your wildflowers
in my bouquet,
lingering on my fingers
like a perfect book
too true to put down.

I want the alliteration in your sigh,
the metaphor of your envy
and every simile you intended
to leave me with

tearing at my heart,
like a song

so I will never forget.



Growing Pains

I have been stifled like the wind,
wound, spun, tripped, tainted by words
carelessly flung, flaunted like trophies
in your virtual cabinet
of fabrication.

Your syllables sting, furious as a storm,
but I don’t mind getting wet.

There is a place where truth grows
like daffodils, yellow and warm,
safe, like sun upon my face.

I can dwell peacefully there,
sing myself lullabies
watching arrows fly
as clouds shadow my face
from haunting sneers

and the grief of you.

I can hush the past,
shut that door
and push you
with my thoughts alone;

quiet that uneasy feeling of fear
you used as a weapon

((to try and paint me in.))

There is a place where love grows, now,
roots buried deep; stems entwined,
petals blushing,

like wings
gently pointing north.



2:00 am flight

Fear paralyzes dreams

While common birds languish,

we soar to the tune of adversity
dawning tinted hair transcendence
into luminous clouds, ascending;

fruitful willows bowing
to the same Halleluiahs I once sang
in corners

when all of this was a fairy tale
in a sleepy poet’s mind,

but now, here he is
bashful eyes
silently exploring love

and another night of peace.




Size doesn’t matter except in matters
of the heart; the rapid pulse of what
makes you tick. Do you still dream in
the daytime or when fireflies & stars
come late, without question? Whether
your four corners spread for miles or
the white of your own quiet walls, do
your eyes know enough to recognize
your own soul; tempt your own fate?

How hard can you be thrown before
you are rubber enough to bounce back;
to uncurl those toes and laugh at the
obstacles, stare the aggressor in the
face & taunt any thought of surrender?

Sit with me when I have nothing, or
everything. Feel my last heartbeat in
sync with yours, and never flinch.Trace
the hurt in my face with sympathy pains
and add your signature to joy lines while
lips still meet in pleasureful tune even
if we are out of tune or gasping for that
last labored breath with curved anticipation.

Sit on the porch with me, in the wet grass,
or in the floor of my closet and cry, loud,
long, never conscious of the sound, or how
your makeup looks or mine. Scream with
me to the heavens, at the heavens, from
the heavens. Lie with me in the dark and
tell stories, (even if they aren’t true,) even
when we don’t remember anymore. Touch
me when I am not so tender; not so easy
to love and love me, anyway.and in those
moments when nothing matters, …matter.




Blushing, like morning petals, there were rows of pink,
but all we remember is the blue; this blue that remains.
The ruffled pillow in the corner, fading soft ivory notes
of songs she hummed, (still hums) in the evening, to stars.
a hum that sobs in daffodils when the light breaks through;
whisp of bare feet through fresh cut grass, young, so young,
green and waiting like a haunting melody breathing faintly,
sleeping, but, never silent; ((the echo)) of her unfinished poem.