I’ve traveled to the edge,
where I could sit upon my
own dreams, counting the
stars as they fell in delicate
repetition of the beats of my
heart, soothing the fall with
the faintest whisper of blues;
my thoughts left to scour the
sky as I paint the horizon in
colors I’ve never before used,
watching and waiting for night
to fall, searching my mind for a
chance at escape, set against
a sight of lasting midnight hues.


I once knew how ink
bled from my loosely
strangled ideas into
scraps of feelings left
behind, burned across
the page, where desire
whispered against the
frailty of my own truths;
I had known the depths
of roots,  as they were
bound like shackles to
the ground, where my
limitations had become
the soil in which I grew.

The Phoenix

On the Phoenix we rose,
flying higher than the jazz
notes in June, with a steady
pour of those whiskey sours
at the ready, you and I were
back to the golden ages of
love after midnight, found
in the playful rhythms of a
trumpet and her sax; where
time for love had become a
luxury, yet the jazz kept on
swaying, and the drinks had
kept on pouring, falling into
repetitions of my heartbeat
singing against your chest –
we were flying higher than
the Phoenix, and we flew on.

Love in Blue

She is the subtle color of blue
on the horizon at dusk, slight
out of center while holding the
sun in her arms, cradling her to
sleep with a lullaby of the stars;
she is the color of blue washing
up on shore with gentle kisses
along the beach, serenading the
sand in slight rhythms of waves
and ripples past dawn. She is my
color of blue illuminated off the
moon between the hours of love
and an embrace, as gentle as the
night and fierce as the waves, she
carries my love through all shades
of life, whispering sonnets in blue.

Verses in December.

I crave dreams set in stone,
set to rhythms and poetry –
where blue ink smears and
the image of loving you is
still found on every page;
where futures are blended
with memories, and words
are more than a destruction
of promises. I crave desire
like the paper needs the pen
to bleed – masquerading as
the sonnet struck out in ink,
as I had once loved you in a
dream, and never stopped.

First Snow

In the trees, where the light
rustle of the branches against
the falling of ice and then snow
are collecting like sonnets sung
in early December, where the
reflections from the streets are
chanting melodies and memories,
where my love for you came in
like a winter wind’s kiss, leaving
a blush on your cheeks – you are
the innocent beauty that comes
back to me with the falling snow,
decorating my thoughts in desires
of repetitions of the season, lightly
blanketing my heart with whistles
of love, rustling against the trees.

Storylines in Verse

With two sways of the ink
I was penning my heart in
verse; a storyline of a love
I wished would have no end.
Blending promises from the
edge of my pen, into nights
of hope, left to carry on with
every new moon. I was the
writer and she was my poem;
carrying love with each new
storyline starting with a sole
concept of beauty beyond
the heart, where every word I
knew, came from loving her.

Insight Nine.

It wasn’t a soft graze,
left to timid lips and
hands like before –
you held passion in
a kiss, interlocking
truths of our hearts
with every sway of
a sigh, with trailing
hands mapping out
missed constellations
across our bodies as
the night kept warm
in our thoughts, with
us once more on the
verge of hope and a
lasting discovery.

Kind of Poetry

she is my favorite of poems,
constantly changing in shifts
of creativity, burning from the
edges of the page and sinking
into blue ink stains – her verses
are curved in rhythms of gold
mixed with champagne, with a
light echo of memories swirling
in the blank spaces between the
daydreams and jazz. she is my
kind of poetry, a verse free from
rhyme and restriction, painting
the inside of my heart in words
set to love and possibilities in a
future cast in the clouds for two.

Verses in November.

I craved the innocence
of a dream set to poetry,
where the blue ink swirls
masqueraded as sonnets
set in a tune of the trees,
billowing past lone breezes
that seemed to only cry in
the hours of free verse and
rhyme; where the rustle of
the autumn days, left me
craving the purity of past
wishes carved in the stars,
where reality had left, and
all I had were my dreams
whispering onto the page.