small smile

In listening,
I realize,
even voices age,

and yet,
I still prefer yours,
answering mine.

Personal Conviction

Sometimes in the end,
it’s all about the way you bend.
The way you sway, the way you play.
The way you end your every day.
The truth that hurts, but is still spoken.
The honesty through loss of token.
These are traits that build a soul
without the need to bribe, cajole.
The foundation of integrity sublime
that is not a tool, a means to climb
but merely the very make-up of true
that lives deep down inside of you.

Sometimes in the end,
it’s all about the thoughts you send.
The needs you meet, the way you treat
the way you stand amid the heat.
The way you comfort, the way you soothe
the obstacles that you remove.
These are aspects that cannot be bought
cannot be given, but only taught.
The mortar by which your core is set
it is not a game, a place to bet
It is merely part of wisdom learned
true character cannot be found, it’s earned.

Bed head

Let me paint a portrait
of someone that I adore.
He’s kind of shrewd and kind of shy.
He’s a type you can’t ignore.

He doesn’t really know me.
I’d blush if he knew my name.
He doesn’t care about my hair,
but I like him just the same.

He lives out there in the distance.
His cares are far and few.
He don’t care about my hair,
at least that much is true.

He might notice me smiling.
He might even stop to chat.
But one things for sure there  is no cure
I better wear a hat.

In celebration of plum cake

In my quiet way,
I notice things.
Like, ripped up photographs,
and the need for traveling gnomes.

I see things,
that others are to hurried to witness.
Like, blue arrows that lead the way forward
and grocers that love royal smiles.

Passionate shouts that are a whisper
too tired to lift their head
but, still speaking, in a voice
that wants to sing.

Kiss first the side of my mouth
then my neck,
and rest finally on my brow.
For that is where you belong.

In my quiet way,
I notice things.
Like, your eyes,
that notice my eyes,
and your smile,
that belongs to me.

For Amelie.

Thoughts of a nutso cutlet

Head back, thinking.
My favorite pose.
Thumbing my thoughts
like a well-read book
wondering at the lack
of missing pages.
Shouldn’t I have more secret
assignations?
Or at the very least,
more curious raids on the frig
at 2 am?

I flip back to the front cover
and wonder at its plain brown cover.
I have tried everything to change it.
Colored it numerous times,
even made it red.
Glitter, stickers, glow-in-the-dark
streaks of declaration.
and yet,
it returns eventually
to this standard
this.brown.cover.
Comfortable, and plain.
But warmer, always warmer
than it started out.

I look at the ceiling,
that place my eyes go,
while my mind travels beyond it,
above it, around it.
These thoughts make me want
to curl up in covers
that resemble the arms
of a man that wants to hold me,
trade smiles.
While we exchange
these much-loved passages
that are our souls written dialog
sung in voices less than pitch perfect,
but still remarkably beautiful.

Ending of a poem

Have we become less then?
Has time taken that moment from us,
driven connections away and left me unaware
of its passing me?

It is like my mind knows, but my heart refuses.
Dimly my head wants to hide,
in covers rich with scented yesterdays,
and not acknowledge the open cut
that is my distance from you.

I lean my head against the nearest window,
ignoring the reflection of a paler me.
The original is always brighter
but more obviously sad.

I struggle against numbness.
It thinks to aid me by feeling nothing,
but I know numbness is only the pause.
After the pause comes the pain.

I have that feeling that is in-between
and in being in-between, has no definition
or true word to describe it.
It is just there, like a pocket of air,
stealing my contentment,
and leaving only sorrow.

Senior Discount

Someone on the bus today,
shriveled up,
and blew away.
No one saw them,
no one knew,
the loneliness that
grew and grew.

No one smiled to see them there,
Not a single glance,
or compassionate stare,
leveled at their desperate eye,
as they struggled,
not to cry.

Drowning Up

I am shipwrecked by you.
Tangled in your seaweed.
Tossed by your waves.
Never certain if it is undertow,
or emotion,
that grabs and pulls my ankle
toward you.

I cannot define this crash of mine.
It is like unexpected water
with sudden chance of fish.
Changeable like the weather,
but startlingly beautiful
in places not prepared
for color.

My eyes are dazzled by reflections
millions of splashes
that ride concentric circles
around me and through my fingers.
My heart is becoming salt-water
lighter than I have ever felt
in my little pond.

It matters not, if I see the moon,
or am captured by the sun.
For I am equally certain that
they merely frame a reverence for
the passing of time
while I tread water
deciding if I am about to drown
or learn, at last, to swim.

Don’t mess with the contessa

Don’t Mess with the Contessa.
She is friends with China Dolls.
She has the affection
of long-eared bunnies,
and the joy of bouncy balls.

She is much liked by sock monkeys
and the Teddy Bears all think she’s grand.
The stuffed snake considers her family.
She holds the heart of the one-man-band.

The nursery horses love her smile
and the wind-up cats delight,
in hearing giggles pass her lips,
as the moonlight winks goodnight.

And if you dare, one cruel dark night
to venture an unkind word
those animals that love her so
will consider you absurd.

They’ll nash their teeth and stomp their feet
and wish you every ill.
For messing with the Contessa
they will mount the window sill.

They will leap the garden wall and gate
to pinpoint your location,
for nothing short of apology
will still their motivation!

And they will find you.
Oh, yes, they will,
some deep and dreamless night
and badger you with nursery tunes
and bark, and scratch, and bite.

They will balance upon your bed
and glare with beady eyes
upon one who would dare to speak
such wrong and vengeful lies.

And in the end you will beg and plead
and ask to be forgiven
on your knees and in your holey socks
prostrate before those so driven.

So, I only seek to warn you
before unkindness you show.
Don’t mess with the Contessa
She’s more protected then you know.

Hello

That’s me.
The one, reading a book on the bus
and snorting laughter, unaware,
that you think she’s crazy.

That’s me.
The one, with dorky,
unmanageable hair
and a penchant for  missing the point, purposely.

That’s me.
The one, with quiet fretting,
inside her breastbone,
where the worries live.

That’s me.
Mismatched socks
graying locks
unhealthy concentration.

That’s me.
Hello.

Sleep perchance to dream

It can be a drug
this sleeping place
where nothing hurts
and your mind is awash
in its own contemplation.

It can be a respite,
walking the corridors
of wonderland.
Making sex and adventure
that has not need for a plot.

Warm place,
that curls my fingers back
until I am no longer holding
those bleeding scars
and tattered memories.

and yet, there is no meaning
that holds your heart together
making firmly that stance
that leads you to yourself
and reminds you of your past.

Dreams are wondrous places
but they are just places.
They are not firm,
They are not solid.
They lack history.

A is for…

Grapple, Grapple
My loves an Apple
Bite my heart, but leave the core.

Seduce my soul with Adam’s bane.
Twist my words, forget my name.
Leave me partial, what’s the color for?

Though, I may drop into your lap,
or upon your head,
I am simply gravity, in your bed.

Despite the scent of sweet seduction.
The appearance of temptation.
I am still easily bruised.

My loves an apple
but I am no mere fruit.
I am an orchard, waiting to bloom.

Stardust on his shoes

He always thought space would be cold
but her fiery passion was like the sun
able, with one touch, to singe his soul
and sweep away the dark side of his moon.

He was caught in her orbit
effortlessly spinning.
Hanging on the stars in her eyes
and somehow, despite himself,
he felt a humble peace
quite different
from the stark silence of space
that had once been his inner atmosphere.

He was not interested in heavenly bodies
or the black holes he saw others gravitating towards.
Lifeless eyes that drew only sadness.
He was, instead, quite taken with diamonds skies
of the Lucy variety.

Memorizing his face

Some memories remain under the skin
like branching veins of hope
rushing always forward.
Sparking life wherever it touches.

Some memories remain inside the mind
like wingless birds
flying gracefully onward.
Conquering fear of heights.

Some memories remain around the heart
like patch-worked blankets
throbbing with connection.
Curled up in cotton understanding.

All my best memories are of you.

Ageless

There is nothing new about the way I love you.
It is there at the start of  all timeless stories.
The kind of thing that fuels hope
and passionate yearning.

The way I love you has childhood in it.
Peeking fingers and running footprints.
Dirty faces and sticky hands.
Endless sighs and embraces for your legs.

The way I love you has youth in it.
Daydreaming sighs.
Hearts drawn on paper along with
your name linked with mine
as I try out a serendipitous surname.

The way I love you has age in it.
Seasoned fingers and slow footprints.
Wrinkled faces and warm hands.
Endless sighs and embraces for your neck.