Monthly Archives: April 2016


I am afraid of
painted wood,
of silence, the absence
of touch-
all empty hearts.

Do not conceal the grain.
an errant
beauty that meanders
repeats patterns,
a sorcery of contrast
that speaks of light and dark,
grown in the embrace of time.

Smoothed in polished hue,
yet textured and aching
for traces
to sound
and hear its voice.

The vibrations that
act upon a contoured soul
and adjoin
with tongues of parity,
a shape that’s shared and sown.

While sitting at my work table, I noticed the beautiful wood grain that wove through the surface, and this poem emerged.


There on,
her window sill blossoms
with planter box flowers
of slow jazz and Stanleys.
Her hand in the sunlight,
its daughter, light and blue.
Of red poppies,
love and forever –
displayed in tune.
And sometimes her crush
of the embraceable gypsy,
-of you
and your charming
pinned notes of heart’s spade
and peonies,
cause her to croon and cascade.
Her fingers lace
through clusters and letters,
still photographs of the
of scarlet fragments her
tears leave in the dirt – along
with the packet
of field daisy seeds
from me.


I remember the blue in her eyes,
though often they were green –
a wistfulness, when she tilted her head,
sentiment at the seams.

Her fingertips, absently tracing the rim
of a cup or a saucer, or both.
The governed expanse of the contour
revealing as is, clothed.

To lean in, whisper lure and yearning,
so bold and sacred, so preferred –
then settle back in tidal fashion
sands and beaches bared – secured.

I recall the mounting balance
that melody and rhythm bind,
a song there at the nucleus
fresh and primed.

I have felt the blue of her ocean,
my eyes remember the scene.
And I am the breeze that comes off the water
pensive and longing my dreams.


With that song
and dance, the one that tweaks their
minds. By chance,
do you rent your inspiration?
Your soul, your lust and legislation
all inclusive-
gone buffet.

A little here and there’s Okay.

Take salad tongs
to prep your bowl
with crawfish, okra,
mac and rolls.
And when the trip down line’s complete,
you feel the ache swell in your feet.

Then I could sit and give massage
til metaphors spill
and rhymes barrage.
The song transforms from swing to pop
a subtle lay with ballad stops.

The night with moonlight’s shade is set,
and you and I,

we pirouette.


My vista has left.

It got up and walked away,
taking its burgeoning poetry
and florets of blush
just beyond the hill-
where I last see a wrinkle
in the day.

Perhaps, it will sail away
and live at sea, content in knowing
that final curtains are best
without remorse. Every green patch
a relic of what was bewitching for me.

Tossed by storms in darkness,
with no one to notice.
Cowed in heat and sun.
Awoken in grey mists
that cling and impede
their run.

Maybe, one day it will land aground
after years adrift. Someone will see
and write words that begin a scene anew.

The beauty of the vista, adorned
with yearning – causes me to run
with all abandon
to meet the last wrinkle
of the day.

It is National Poetry Writing Month. I’ve participated in the past, but I don’t think I will this year – time will not allow me a post every day. I’ve been on a bit of a down-turn lately with inspiration for writing and experiencing my own emotional lows. This poem conveys a little of that struggle, the loss of “vision” – though I’m not sure I’m totally happy with it. I share it anyway, as a work in progress, because writing is something I must continue to do.

I don’t know why, I just do. I hope readers will continue to read.

All the best.