You dipped fingers
in the wet paint,
rubbed palms together,
like a blood brother,

scrolled through the pages
to find that perfect place
to leave your print

your smeared,
imperfect signature

in the book of life;

an invitation to love
that all started
with a word.


Love Letter #81: Ripple Effect

In the evening, when nature hums

take pause

to follow sounds of peace
that dwell within;
psalms that whisper inner thoughts,
not of your own,
and a shaking
from the depths of your soul

that arises thoughts,
revives senses
you believed were mute,

awakens the muse

to sing praises like nature does;
like sun rising and setting in his eyes

flowing to you.

Be the river
that connects our spirits
resounding joy,
erasing doubt,

leaving only love
to catch his breath.


Love Letter # 80: (Page 24)

He sent a messenger,
upon a mountain,
to plead mercy
over impending ashes;

folded flowers of the field
faded grass in unripe soil,

and then you came:

and I drank you in
like the last cup of tea
in fine china.

Oh, light in the dark,
you never leave me.
In the torrent,
you cover my face;
save every tear
behind glass,
every smile
in a shadow box

of love.


What the Wind Can’t Carry

There is a fork in the river
that interrupts the flow,

where you choose north
to rise above it
or sail to the south.

The fall is quick and easy,
soft, temporary landing-
but, the flight is perilous,
uphill, against the wind;

the path less traveled

but the fruits,
oh, how they flower!

ripples tickle the senses,
perk the petals,
spread the word
to all who will listen;

the trumpet
only the remnants


His Little Secret

I could have written about daffodils

but, I chose you,
because some days,
pain seems to pull poetry;

birth words
from intimate places.

I still can’t understand
the concept of unloving;
shutting a door you opened-
flipping the script on a life.

You can silence me
but, never my existence,
though you have tried,

This dirty little secret
is still blooming

but, don’t despair, daddy
as I step away discreetly
with my self-respect
and a fist full of daffodils.


Love Letter #79: Stowaway

As I looked across the table at him,
my soul, a two way mirror-
heart dissected, chastised
like love often is,
deflated, misunderstood
like the rhythm
of crashing cymbals
in a poet’s head at 3:00 am.

Everything seems dark these days
fists raging against the wind,
teeth clenched.
He runs beside the train,
she drops her backpack to her feet,
relaxes her face muscles;

We still flow like a river,
soft, steady ripples
like my skin
in the wake of his fingers.


Love Letter 77: Instrument

There are moments
when even poets
need no words
when syllables silence,
his fingers slide
across the palm
and criss-cross into mine
like a sanctuary for hearts;
the flow of feelings,
hum in symmetry
playing us softly,
like strings of a harp;
like poetry
off the tongue.