Syllable Envy

I love makeup
just like any other girl,
pink lip pouts; sultry,
smokey-eyed glances,

but behind the glitter,
adjectives sway,
pirouetting into stanzas

as metaphor turns his head,
alliteration catches the eye.

Some guys adore legs
sashaying down the runway,
skirt swirling hello
to adoring onlookers,

but most men know,
there’s nothing
quite so alluring

as a lady
behind a typewriter.


Happy Birthday, Sylvia Plath



Love Letter #20: Atmosphere

Notebooks full of daydreams
melt candles on window sills,
but, there’s a block…
in my flow of ink;
syllables in a conundrum
tossing out words
that fill empty spaces
running roughshod over pronouns
while adjectives take the stage
and glitter a waning, blue moon.

He said, “If only
I could see inside your head,”
I answered, “Oh, but,my heart
is so much more enticing,
Come closer.” He was shaking;
my eyes dance
and glitter a waning, blue moon.

Arms sheltered us,
like a steel umbrella,
rain untouching, daffodils
reach to tickle knees and
light as far as we can see
beckons dusk, fades stars
and glitters a waning, blue moon.

These nights are tender;
his hands, cradle my face
lips wander, curiously,
whispering sighs, kisses, soft
on repeat
while clock hands move
like breaths, like heartbeats
and glitter a waning, blue moon.




I should have been a flower child
sachet of sonnets stitched
in my front jean pocket
and bare feet
in miles of lavender.

They say where two or more
are gathered, there you are
and here we stand,

up to our eyes in gift of sun
and stars when light goes dim.

When winter comes,
fingers warmed by whispers;
feathered followers
leaving ripples
in a river red as love.



Curves of a Muse

Let dreams be wildflowers

under our feet
as tempered glass
swells with gladness;

hands on a book
at 2:00 am
whispering syllables
over a pillowcase
of silent adjectives;

hourglass curves
under the sheets
of un-typed assonance.




The river is living water;
blue-green truth flows
between us, through us
upon earth, wildflowers
birthing dandelion fluff.
Oh, how we mimic life,
mirroring each other’s
smiles, shaking hands
with knives behind our
backs. Perhaps we need
to go to the mountains
and just breathe for a
minute and remember
why we came. Toss a
silver coin and realize
how insignificant woes
are within the scheme
of things. We are dust;
pins on a map. Let’s be
more than that. Let’s live.
Be like that river, and flow.




Pick my brain;
tiptoe through metaphors
and fields of alliteration

just to find
that one perfect daffodil.

They line up in rows,
congregate like seagulls
these flocks, these syllables,

they linger.

Words fester
and bloom at 2:00 am
when lashes flutter,
forced awake
and fingers fall in line
with the muse.

She is fickle, faint, flowering,
but difficult to water,
feeding off of love
and the smallest slivers of light.

Cast my line, pull it in,
with nothing but leftover dreams
and too many adjectives to count;
pronouns falling in love
and into sentences
to emulate the perfect poem.

This all started in my head;
this love of the English language,
this obsession with words,

just about the time I realized
I hated Mathematics.