The Wise Lighthouse

The other day she slid her feet

into cool soft sand and listened,

to a lighthouse whisper its wisdoms

into the crashing ebb of waves

showing through stalwart radiance:

How to weave a quiet serenity

in the moments of solitude

and vast wild openness,

How to be the only structure

in an endless sea of blue

and find substance there,

How to truly inhabit one’s self

in such a voracious authenticity

and beacon that light out to others,

So she wrote that light house

a thank you in the sand then watched

as high tide carried that gratitude

to the wise lighthouse.

Child’s Make Believe

On my balcony I watched a child

play with an imaginary friend,

and while texting my own friends

I laughed and laughed at him.

Then the kid starting slow dancing

with his little invisible partner,

‘how cute’ I thought to myself

while texting some girl.

The boy then started talking, talking to it

this intangible person of his mind

but I had seen enough

and had all my laughs.

So I stood up

went inside

started my shift

of talking, talking

into a computer screen.

After work

I sat in my car scrolling

scrolling until my phone

grew a face on the back

that scowled and hissed

and laughed at me.

So with tears in my eyes

I threw the phone

in the glove compartment,

then I drew a nicer

friendlier face

on the wind shield,

it was the second realest thing

I’d seen all day –

right behind that boy’s imaginary friend.

Just Them

Among fields and skies and parkways

I trace my dreams into dirt

onto walls

across my forehead.

I swallow pens

and chew paper

screaming at sunsets

petting lonely fires.

I squeeze my work until

it hardens to coal

seething for spark

lusting for ember.

Yet the clouds are heavy

with rain and thunder

so this wick is made wet

to hide from the flames.

But how fortunate,

among all this chaos

and turbulence

and fury

I was baptized:

by 100 famous poets,

moving my hair

kissing my forehead

by 100,000 nameless writers

straightening my tie

dusting off my shoulders.

Only for them.

JUST for them.

I will go on with this.



I scan with my eyes

I notice patterns

see the shapes and sizes

that this piece could fit into.


I gently glide my fingers

across a forming landscape

feeling for opportunities

that would benefit

from this piece’s presence.


with firm resolution

I attempt to insert this piece

maybe it fits

contributing to a more complete picture,

maybe it doesn’t fit

and more force

only bends the piece…

So once again,

I scan with my eyes

I notice patterns …


Eternal Venus silver

you sweet magnanimous creature

let me chase and let me love

this luring gem,

dear Luna.

Majestic foxen angel

just pose in space forever

not too close not too real

my guiding light,

oh Luna.

So pray for me

this muse tonight

who won’t stay or know

her grace in time:

my word,

my dear,

my Luna.

Sunset Darlings

you’ll shine

you’ll see

you will kiss the crisp morning

then lullaby the sun down.

One day

real soon

every footstep will ring out

with the sound of belonging.

I know it

I see it

like a solar eclipse mystifies

your glory will here align!

and I will be there friend

to cheer you on

while holding you up

to setting sun.

So shine –

you sunset darling,

shine for everyone!

and other lies

what’s on your TV,

what your friends tell you,

Spam (the mail and meat variety),

how you felt yesterday,

Mark Zuckerberg’s “human” features

my words,

your words,

Shakespeare’s words,

the words on your phone,

Oh! and birds (probably)

Those dreams you fantasize about,

the way your lover feels about you,

your perception –

of other’s perceptions of you

There are a lot of things

that aren’t real

its all salt water

mud in a syrup bottle.

get it out of you.

Do what you have to

stick a finger down your throat

retch if you have to

Get. It. Out.

July’s Air

Watching planes take flight in the night sky

and for the first time in my life

I’m not jealous of the planes,

this is exactly where I wanna be:

right here

tasting July’s air.

I can look at birds floating against the clouds

without rage or spite

just a similar sense of weightlessness ,

cause my mind doesn’t fly away now:

it stays

laying itself bare.

So this poem isn’t a poem

about beautiful women

or angsty expression


not this one,

this poem:

it goes out to the planes

and the birds

and the staying here-

with feet on the ground

breathing in

July’s air.


Laying on a futon:

One can watch city shadows

dance across a crème wall

in a precious puppet show.

The naïve youth can play their dreams

sprawled out on the open ceiling

like a cheap movie theatre.

An equally tenacious and foolish romantic

can open a window to the city

and smell their next lover’s perfume.

Yes the futon is great

for resting before new adventures,

but to not feel its fabric

before moving to silken sheets…

That’d be a travesty.