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 …

Saturday Sun-Goddess

In ancient Egypt,

Mesopotamia, and Greece

men would travel miles upon miles

to make a sacrifice

(some crops or a first born)

all in the hopes

of seeing a sun goddess:

their silken skin glistening,

like it’s made of gold

and divinity.


I just have to take a trip downtown,

make a more contemporary sacrifice

of chai latte

and wonderful conversation

then just like that,

I experience my own sun goddess

for just a few precious hours:

Shinning bright enough

to make the sun look dim.

A sweetness big enough

to make skyscrapers look small.

A brilliance so luminescent

that I wonder if the evening light

journeyed from her eyes

before pouring out

onto the city’s sacred streets.

then just as beautifully,

just as swiftly,

the sun sets

and my goddess leaves

but I’ll only smile …

because my world will be that much brighter

for the next few days.


I have a scar

under my nose

daring me

youthful me

took a flying swan dive

directly onto a pile of cans

(you see, no one told me not to)

daring me

youthful me

would leave high school

to visit the girl down the street

I would lay in her bed

under a pile of purring kittens

telling her she looked beautiful

in a messy hair bun and letterman jacket.

I would continue to do so

for five years

(no one told me not to)

I have a second scar

on my right index finger

playing with scissors

in 3rd grade art class

confusing ole’ pointy here

for construction paper

because, well, you guessed it

(no one told me not to)

older me

none-more-wiser me

would leave college

to visit an art gallery of a woman

I’d lay in her bed

watching her hair change colors

with the passing seasons

then I’d leave in the morning

(no one told me not to)

This last scar

small on my wrist

I don’t know how it got there,

how did we get so hurt

how did things go so wrong?

grown me

raised me

would run my fingers

along the many scars

of a third woman

a cheek down her forearm

my right index finger up her thigh,

she would tell me of the other men

who left their scars on her

and I’d listen and nod

then pull out a knife of my own.

(all the while screaming

pleading with myself:

not to)

Again the Dam Breaks

My soul is like paper

yours eyes, my love, the rain

and a rusty chain

bends just enough

until it breaks in pain.

My heart’s a closed window

your smile, my dear, a stone

and these weeds have grown

much too high now

for the tulip reeds to show.

These nights are cool waters

our ties, my sweet, a dam

and each efforts claims

these things won’t break again…

then again

and again

the Dam keeps breaking.

Yet late at night,

I still pray

those raging waters

took you somewhere softer.

Highway of Wishes

I wish the highway

would wash away from under me

taking with it

all these long seconds

so void of voice

lonely of laughter

I wish each patch

of broken asphalt and dirt

would lead me some bit closer

to the softness of your palms

to the slow drag of finger tips

I wish these roads

could lead me to a closer place

where I can dance and play

among those wild youthful eyes

I wish I could whisper my love

against the nape of your neck

instead of mumbling about it

in a restless sleep

Oh highway of wishes,

take me somewhere new

take me anywhere

just take me to you

This Woman is a Poem

This woman is a song

her voice plays a gentle sound

with no more a pleasant syllable

to ever pass me.

This woman is a poem

her movements a graceful meter

with such soothing articulations

I read her thin lines out loud.

This woman is a flower

her passions blooming

with effortless substance

and quiet grace.

Though she won’t know

my words are for her,

I whistle her tune

I recite her lines

I cherish her petals…

and oh when I see her,

how I smile

at all this woman is to me

yes this woman,

she is a poem.

I hope she knows.

Mirage of a Bluebird

There was a time

I experienced you in everything:

I saw your face in floating clouds

I smelled your clothes in spring gardens

I tasted your lips in every sugary summer cocktail.


the presence of you

has washed off of my world,

for the most part that is

but every once in awhile…

like a man dying of thirst sees an open oasis,

I too see a mirage

so occasionally…

I rub a flower’s petals in my fingers

suddenly feeling your golden hair

flowing through my fingers again.

Or maybe I see a majestic horse

it’s muscles rippling in a full gallop

reminding me of how fierce you were.

So during these long days that I spend

learning the chasms of my mind

and mapping a new found independence

I maintain my distance from you

giving you complete space,

which hopefully,

soothes the scars

on your already worn heart.

but don’t you ever think

for even a single moment,

that I stopped cherishing those times

or believing in what you can accomplish:

you’ll still change the world

you’ll still heal the broken

just with a greater sense of peace now

for my most genuine apology:

is my absence

my last love poem:

is the peaceful whisper of a gentle ‘goodbye’

in the ear of those passing mirages

(whenever they come around).

The Summer’s Sun

My love,

she is the summer’s sun

shinning life on spring blossoms

warming slow winter hearts.

She is a hundred thousand miles

stretching around the horizon

then sprawling atop my chest.

Some days glow dim

mourning their solemn overcasts.

Yet the sunlight through thin drapes

revives in me a certain faith

that I’ll one day know:

the rhythm of her heart beat,

which so sweetly sings a tune

to the silence between moments.

the beauty in all her precious moods,

when she dances on wood floors

or cries into my stained collar.

the bliss in her dreams,

when there is too much hope

in her cup of morning coffee.

Yes my love,

is the summer’s sun

a beacon of light

I walk towards her


From my Car

He gently places the flowers on her step

heavy from the weight

of all that young bachelor’s heart beats

all his feelings,

all his intentions,

his cherished observations.

I watch from my car

swallowing thick gulps of air

tasting the tension in his blood.

He rings her bell

runs off grinning

like a thief pocketing diamonds.

She opens the door

smiles at the sight

brings the flowers to her chest

breathes in her hopes deeply

smiling in the sea of its aroma.

Yet that bachelor never saw the smile he caused

only I did,

watching from my car.

Where is that bachelor now?

I imagine him in open pasture

somewhere warm

picking more flowers.

Flowers in Her Hair

I hope there’s flowers in her hair

a wild wind mingling with root and rose

laughter in her voice from sun on her nose.

I hope she takes those little petals

places them down as silken white bookmarks

in those poetry books we read when apart.

I hope she’s somewhere out there now

tracing the tender trenches of her pillow

left void and open by an equally broke heart.

I hope she finds me

or maybe she won’t,

but all the same…

I hope there’s flowers in her hair.