With the gentle waves of amber
granulated into the night sky,
binding stars into the darkened
scenes of heaven and fidelity,
there is a moon wrapped in the
embrace of my love, soothing
sonnets twice turned over and
falling with the rhythm of lost
laughter at the touch of hand;
gently and soundly upholding
the northern skyline with twists
of fate and desire, only casting
reflections against their heart
to help guide me back home.
between whispers and sonnets
we could cover the landscape of
the moon, carving out milestones
in memories and gentle lullabies
swaying in-between constellations,
fragments of stars and promises.
together we can illuminate the sky
past dusk, with hope just on the
horizon and a laughter of colorful
verse to lighten the darkness; with
each other hand in hand, we can
create the crevices of the moon to
hold our secrets, until we can find
the words to wish onto the world.
When I close my eyes
underneath the light of
the moon, it is you that I
dream of; sunlight kisses
over the mountains, crisp
breezes running fingers
through my hair, and sweet
gentle chatter over coffee
on Pearl Street. My heart
aches for your embrace –
hand in hand strolls beneath
the light of the stars, while
counting wishes of whispers
of hope, longing and love.
With every new moon, I
close my eyes, dreaming
of you and I – together
being home, once again.
I think back on picnics
in the park – your shades
were bouncing reflections
of the sun into my eyes yet
I couldn’t do anything but
smile. I was busy trying to
harmonize my laughs in time
with yours, filling the silences
between the trees bustling
about and the calls of the
birds – eventually we lay still,
curled up into one another
with only the sound of our
hearts beating, thump, thump,
thump… It’s the melody of
the summer, calling us to play.
Let’s just ride; let us
hop in a car and ride.
Drive west through the
mountains and when we
get to the top shout out
all of our insecurities and
see where they fall, for
nothing can evoke our
fears once we own them.
We can continue driving
until we run out of road,
stopping in the sand and
kicking off our shoes as
we run into the waters,
drowning the words that
we have chosen to keep
silent, and when the moon
has set we’ll start all over
again, heading east past
the plains, or south into
the deserts – wherever
you want my dear, and
that’s the beauty of it all,
let’s just hop in and ride.
Its been three hundred
and eighty days since I
first said those beautiful
words to you, frightened
as ever as I held you in my
arms; the sun was setting,
casting golden shadows
across our bed, and I kept
asking you to tell me a
story, just one more tale
to prolong the afternoon,
for I knew once you took my
heart, I’d never get it back.
And just look at us now
darling – it’s still yours,
just tell me a story.
With an ounce of
temptation trapped
in the third to last kiss,
I saw a future cast
before my eyes of white
lace and black candlesticks,
walking down a strip to a
sunset morrow whispering
away the final days of
summer, laughing until
the stars could no longer
illuminate the sky, when I
was your bride and
everything else was lost in
the hobble of vows and words,
holding on until the second
to last brush of lips when
temptation had dissipated
with the heat of the rising sun;
those are the moments
trapped in ounces of memories
never to become undone.
(For Ann Morse)
Back to the days of
Crayola and pop music;
when life was optimistic.
Before the Beats’ words
sprouted my ideas to the
heavens, rooting them in
foundations of debauchery
and debris – I felt home.
When prose was just another
word, and abstract meant
nothing in rhyme; when
words were lost without
blue ink to take notice,
back before odd numbers
became haunting, and
broken heart pieces ran
frantically through verse –
there was one to inspire;
a rose in the rubble.
A library of foundation
in my childhood recanted,
with books and metaphors
still springing up in
free formed rhyme today –
she was a model for the
curious, the knowledgeable.
With a love for dark
chocolate, set to illuminate
all seasons of fall, it is
her voice that I carry in
the outskirts of my mind,
creating pillars of hope
and discovery in my stages
of free verse and rhyme.
I cannot recall when my
words in ink first flowed
through me as my foundation
of love, yet I know she was
there with words and books
in hand, calling out
“Sandburg” as though my
tears couldn’t be more
proud to have a grandmother
like her, on my side.
It’s here in those moments
when the light is breaking
through the blinds, hands
grabbing for every bit of
carpet to illuminate beyond
the beige fabrications of
when you and I laid there
sweet in slumber and kisses;
when the heat of the summer
hasn’t quite reached us yet,
oblivious in the shadows,
divulging our senses with
sweet lilacs from the
neighbor’s yard – blissfully
sneaking out to pick them in
the mid afternoon and it’s
in these moments that I
cherish that sweet loyalty –
just like the summer winds
will howl, the bushes will
sprout growth, and laughter
will fill the apartment
every time the sun reaches
our toes – you are there.
Storylines in Verse 