Charcoal Outline

If shadows could speak,
mine and yours would converse
about the fragile life
​of daffodils,

the softness of constellations
and the way light billows
through strands of our hair;

silhouettes sleeping

within the length
of one another.



Love Letter #38 Poetic Device

I taped your words
to a quiet place in my mind
so that all I have to do
is close my eyes

to read you.

I eat, sleep and dream
high on metaphor,
romanced by alliteration;

imagery like flowers
brings me to my knees
in a garden
of syllables.

Sprinkle my senses
with sweet assonance;

two lumps of inspiration in my morning coffee.

~Day 26 of NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month)


Love Letter #36: Cinderella on a Tightrope


The warmth of you melts my fear;

inhibition, a puddle beneath my feet

as stray syllables fall from my lips


and the stars that dwell in your eyes

      align with mine

              in a certain symmetry


that clouds share with rain.


I have a sneaking feeling

that an adoration will reign

as butterflies encircle


an irregular heart- –beat


and love falls –

           in a downpour.



~Day 21 of NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month)






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.


Too Many Stars To Write

I hear an echo in the dark
when air is too still
and words
write themselves
in my head

with no place to go.

Come steal away my stars
and bring fragments
into fruition

like rain does

when clouds
are oh, so low
and light,

oh, light





Content With Stars

Had I never climbed that mountain,
seen smoky blue-gray clouds below me
and puffs of amber whirling goodbye,
I would have been content with stars
cascading through a midnight sky,
yellow sun peeking through the shutters,
willows weeping on silent afternoons
and bluebonnets as far as the eye can see.




Darkness, swells
in the pit of your stomach;

and sleep becomes an impossibility.

Through sheer blue curtains,
dreams clouded by stark reality
as bloodshot eyes
force themselves open;

fingers find solace in his face,
intermingling in prayer.