We were left to wander
the streets with the signs
of dusk looming,  set in
motion beneath a subtle
hue of jazz found in the
stars, with you and I as
the trumpet and the sax,
trailing songs with our
footsteps, singing along;
we were born wanderers,
left to the rhythms set by
the land,  following along
with the moon and stars
guiding us hand in hand
to the places only seen by
the inside of our dreams.

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.

Musings (In Travels)

Underneath the light
of a three quarter moon,
watching the plains drift
beneath the stars, set to a
soothing rhythm of your
whispers against the night
stained glass, venturing
down the highway under
the warm embrace of the
moon – you and I are love;
traveling with two beating
hearts as the radio, set to
the rocking motion of the
lighted night sky, searching
past the horizon for home.

Miles to go.

as I sit in anticipation, gazing
out the window of the backseat,
going seventy five without a radio
down the grains of the highway,
watching the amber waves sway
past, I am aware that with every
passing grain, every passing day
there is another memory that we
will never have, another day lost
to indecision and circumstance;
I watch the waves carry me into
hope swaying against reality, and
I am lost in a sea of grains, buying
the outcome of dreams not quite
attainable without a new horizon.


they called her a dreamer,
a wanderer, a bohemian
Aphrodite with words that
cut like a knife; her pen as
her weapon, she was carving
sonnets into the eastern half
of the mountains with only
moonlight and a name on
her lips, while whistling
away love on her sleeve.
she was independence in
July, and as soft as the wind
in late autumn – she was an
attraction to be seen, but like
the promise of the setting sun,
she would leave in a haze, in
a dream set in stone, following
her heart to places unknown.

Just a suggestion…

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.