Love Letter

Leave syllables on my pillow
when I wake
and your scent to hold me

when arms cannot reach
far enough

for winds to brush my face

with whispered kiss
too soft to capture.

Leave petals
when all the flowers have gone
from my hair

and I will dance them
into hearts

painting our best memories
upon sunsets of your dreams.


each dawn with me
as golden flutter
leaves Spring thoughts

in every season.

You will never feel winter
within the warmth

of my waiting smile.



Pretty Pearl

Star gazing on an evening without clouds,
metaphors blowing like halos
around a jealous moon;
you, sleeping on my shoulder.
I could almost see your dreams
manifesting in clandestine language
with fireflies, following light
on a journey of unpaved roads.

Let’s go back to San Josef,
almost like a mirage,
where you found that perfect sand dollar
deep and twisted in deserted beach;
sand glistening like gold in your hair
and I knew then that you loved me.

Remember that cabin in the summer
when the lights went out
and we whispered under the covers
counting reasons why we will never change?
I gave you a middle name, and you changed mine
exchanging verses , seashells, words
that no one else has heard.
When the lights came back on,
you switched them back off and made dinner
by candlelight.

From that mountain, we cried,
promising forever over streams
under Pike’s peak
of sunlight in blurry eyed yesterdays.
You still hold my hand when vacation is over
my baggage on your back; my tears
filling your ocean blues.

You called me your pretty pearl
sang songs until the sun peeked
from heart-shaped pillow clouds
on dew petaled mornings

when only the pink ones were good enough
to pass from your hands to mine.

~NaPoMo (a poem a day for National poetry month)


The Dance


I remember blue
the way it looked on me
those nights when breezes
were touches to ease;
those stars, those stars
that took away ache.


They danced, flawlessly,
in pirouette, sashayed
swirl of diamonds
(like my eyes
when I thought of him,)


close enough to count
like wishes
pinned on clotheslines
to sway;
dreams steady
and unforgotten.


Like Vincent Van Gogh’s night,
ours was full;
cypress playing hide and seek
within silhouette
of moonlight sonata waltz.


He came closer-
close enough
to feel pitter patters;
restless chords
of love’s sentence.


Too many twilights
keep me waiting
for syllables intertwined-
twirled like dust
of dipped constellations


that chase remedies
for enamored souls
in chorus filled halls
where poetry
feeds what ails us.


Five points of light
tumble in fate of wind
while dreamers
in window sills
leave blessings
for morning sun.


Sleep is startled
by moan of past trains
who came and went
from too many stations
without a full stop.


So, write another end;
one that echos peace,
carries weight
like jewels
that adorn spirits.


We come full circle;
balance universes
of you, I ,
in perfect symmetry
of stars.


From mountain high, in your fingers, a ring.
I saw bouquets, the future; an old porch swing.

Flutter, flutter of hearts as church bells chime;
our never-ending story concludes with this rhyme.

~Day 6 April 6 NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month)


Like Petals


Twirl of clouds sprinkle passion
upon not so innocent bystanders
seeking Paris nights under a Texas sky.
These sidewalks shake with clickety-click
of heels and sway of lace skirts lacking love
as suits without names stir romantic thoughts
and heads turn counter – clockwise and back;
reciting two cents of the unwanted kind.
Late night smoke rings form golden bands;
a gentle reminder of seasons passed
moons ago when singing sun made light
of every frivolous worry upon clotheslines
on daunting Mondays within a May breeze.
Swing, swing from the ordinary thoughts
when the walls close in and excuses rust
like the spaces between us.


Carry that torch to the ocean-
put it out in the waves and unwritten sand
of so many lovers with letters washed away.
Dreams are more than metaphor
to broken spirits hanging on by thread;
treading water while fright, like mountains,
towers. Fear is only a tremble; hands
reaching for something, someone to calm
the rage with a touch so gentle
that even the earth is moved.
Carry her to a place of alliteration
where stars commence in dance, falling
like clandestine moments melting too soon.
Take breaths between those whispers
that press petals in her palm like pages
of a book of psalms with silver edges.


Whoever said gray is not a color
never paused to consider
the law of attraction, looking up
from a perfect field of daffodils
to paint a purple landscape,
blank and interrupted, counting
firefly hellos over conversations of whys
tweaking twilight until it all fades to black;
like lyricists pouring music from a coffee pot
on many a 3:00 am sleepless morning
when poetic notions marry off pronouns
to prospective stanzas with sleek syllables
and all the right adjectives to woo
a helpless heart that just cannot resist
the vulnerability of a third vignette.



Hypnotic Poison

It was difficult to differentiate
between her and the flowers
she lie in;
wore in her hair

that day in the park
when it was cloudy,

but, feelings weren’t.

Verses played ping pong
with adjectives;
forgetting to exhale s
cents of spring-
grass tickling
the silk of her skin;

giggles, stirring emotion
one last time

before darkness
diminished the resemblance
of her sway,
the twirl of her tresses

and the willow, just before dusk.



Scenic Curves

You said due to our difficult circumstances,
if I should ever forget your eyes and how they
hold your heart within them when you look
at me, I should remember that first day in a
crowded room, when we were completely
alone, or the first time you ran your fingers
across my cheek and wandered to petaled
places and back so gently that I felt feathers
like the ones that adorn the wings I bear. You
said if you ever fall short, to whisper before we
sleep like we always do, laughing and remind
you, but how can I when your love never fades
from those brown eyes that always melt mine.



Fading Moon

Flowers smell sweeter
when you are closer to earth
resting upon thoughts

like butterflies,
afraid to change seasons.

We get accustomed to rain
when daydreams are flooded
by jolts of reality;
lightning striking twice
in the same tattered places,

plowed soil readied for bare feet
to run tiptoe in new gardens;

evening constellations
playing footsies
with a fading half moon.

These cypress trees take root,
sway in singing wind

teasing breeze,
tickling lovers

until Winter feels like Spring.