Arranging Flowers

He didn’t carve initials
in that oak tree we lay beneath,
but, we tasted syllables.
rolling off the tongue,
from his lips to mine
and back again,
quenching our thirst
with the juice of poetry
dripping down pink curves;
fingers finding metaphor
within tangled limbs-
searching for alliteration
in a handful of wildflowers;
breaths meeting
in the middle
of love’s sentence


Love Letter #37: Conception (Vignettes)


I found you where the river meets willows
moons away from my loveliest imagination,
where jealous constellations
admire the conception of a love
expressed in glances away,
cheeks, blushing like roses
and the simplest twirl of tresses

with the loudest implications.


Build me a castle
on the white beach
where you found me
a perfect sand dollar.

I don’t mind the twists and turns
we took to get there;
under vines, over hills
like our life;
glorious, uncharted,

of the unpaved road
to San Josef.


Your breath, upon my neck
whispering like the breeze
just before the tide changes
and lips part
like the waves do
with a rush down my spine;
the same one I get
just before I close the door-

and the waft of your cologne settles
on the collar of my robe.


Did you ever notice
I leave my favorite pink lipstick
in the cup holder of your car,
and post-a-notes with a heart
in your lunchbag?;

like the red box of letters
you sent me,
that I still keep close
even though you are near, now.


I like how we sleep
closer than two could;
wrapped cocoon-like
interwoven limbs;
sheltered, like a second skin,
curves, valleys,
the metamorphosis of us.

~Day 22 of NaPoMo (a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month)



I fell into sleep,
circled blue lace sensitivities
within a fog of allure,
gazing upon blushed cheeks
of curiosity;

arms of silhouettes
meeting visual height
of enchantment
and landed face up
under the precious, snow dusted

of us.



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.


Play Right

Let’s split the scene.

You take all the good lines
while I swoon
to the notion

that emotion
is all in my head.

Carefully catch
the signals I send;
and blow one back

and after the finale’,
you’re getting an encore.