In a Sea of Lonely Nights

A lonely boy in a sea of lonely nights
in that last hour of the day
capturing words he wishes he had said
writing them down
so they’re out of his head

Music fills the air
soothing the tension
lessening the cares

Take a trip to the other side:
what makes the other person tick,
what makes them come alive,
what’s in their head they’re trying to hide

While reaching out for a connection
lost and longing for attention
it’s someone in his bed
that doesn’t know the depths
of the tears he’s shed

But it’s still a mystery;
where did it all go wrong
was it this way all along

Thousands of poems captured on those lonely nights
but not a one could do
when it’s just not you

Listen to more of my poems on SoundCloud
This poem, along with others, can be found in my book Coffee Shop Sessions II: Moving Mountains One by One


The Box

Photo by Kim Stiver on Pexels.com

“This friendship will self-destruct when you open that box,” Katie says as she hands me a box and waits for a response. I wonder what this means, what is so important in this little box. Do I dare open it? I don’t want to lose her as a friend. We’ve been through a lot together: medical crises, boyfriends, girlfriends, her parent’s divorce. I don’t want any of that to change. It’s such a small box; how could something so small have such a huge impact?

Oh… oh, wow. Is she? Does she…? Wait a minute. I need to sit down for this. She’s never… I’ve never said… Where is this coming from? I must have been blind this whole time. The whole time? I’ve known her for the past fifteen years and not once has this come up. Well, maybe that one night in summer camp when we were talking at the lake. But not since. We were so young then. The sun had just set over the lake, Katie confided her parent’s were in the midst of splitting up. She was sure her future was bleak. What was the point of love if it just ended one day? I told her that love is complicated, but true love is forever. She kissed me and I never thought of it again.

Now here I stand with a box. Oh dear, I want to slowly pull on the ribbon. But I also want to throw this box far away as possible. What did she put in here? Maybe it’s just a keepsake. She always wanted to make a time capsule for us look back on when we are older, when we have had our own adventures and want to look back on how far we’ve come. She’s wanted to backpack across South America and volunteer in orphanages. Maybe this is her goodbye and she’s finally taking that trip. Well, good for her.

I pull on one strand of ribbon, look up at Katie, and meet her eyes. She’s been patiently waiting. I hate to keep her waiting. She must be in as much suspense as I am awaiting my reaction.

“Katie, I don’t know what this is all about but trust me, our friendship will not be destroyed,” I reassure her. She half smiles as I proceed with the ribbon.

If I’m honest, and this is her proposing – no matter how forward it is, I can’t think of anyone better to grow old with. Katie is the first person I think of when things go right, or terribly wrong. Her kindness and laughter have helped to heal the deepest wounds. She’s my rock. She was there for me when Cassie left after five years. Cassie and I were heading nowhere, she wanted marriage but something between us was off. And Katie, well she knows I will drop everything at a moment’s notice for her. Maybe that’s also why Cassie left. She felt as if she couldn’t compete with our friendship. I don’t blame her, but it’s not something to let go of so easily when you’ve been friends for so long.

“Jack,” she begins, “do you remember when my parent’s split and my mom gave me her wedding ring? Well, I found it while packing up my apartment and I thought you should have it.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell her. “Why would you want me to have it? And packing your apartment? Where are you going?”

She explains that she has been assigned to a task force in Colombia. “They asked me to head up the training program for delivering influenza vaccinations. They are facing a major influx of Venezuelan migrants and they need our help. I want my mom’s ring to be kept safe for when I return.”

“Absolutely, you can trust me but have you talked to your mom about this? You should give it to her.”

“I’ve tried but she doesn’t want to see that ring ever again. It’ll trigger too many bad memories of what she’s lost. Anyway, I should be back in six months.”

“Six months?! Katie, are you sure about this? I mean, it’s dangerous down there.”

“It’ll be fine! My company is scheduling to have security set up around our camp and besides, now all my years of learning Spanish will finally pay off.”

Her infectious grin makes it hard to stay mad at her. I tuck the box into my pocket and throw my arms around her, inhaling all of what I almost had, all of what I’ll miss.


A Story of Hope

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

A writer yearns to tell their story, any story,
that will stand the test of time
full of hardships conquered
and inspire generations with hope.

The story shall feel whimsical,
not so much with fairies dancing
but that there is a happy ending.
The story shall have brevity,
not so much as a long weathered tale
but one that details just enough.

The story shall be one that others dream of
and inspire even the darkest ones with hope.

The depth of emotion shall brighten the skies.
The cutting edge shall be sharp as a fresh-cut sword.
Giving what many have lacked.
Inspiring strength to withstand.

Readers everywhere want a story, any story,
because our story is yearning for hope.


Caught In The Act

Working long hours between covert exchanges abound
it becomes a late night at the office
with no one else around,
we absolve the need to be cautious

Behind the locked door,
you parade around the desk,
perch yourself closer than ever before
as your fingers reach the hem of my dress

Fingers creeping higher
as my eyes heighten with alert,
tension in the air lessens with a burning fire
developing under my skirt

Time stands still,
frozen in place
fingers begin to fill
such a sensational space

Eyes wide, locked tight
the thrill of getting entangled in the act
quickly heats up the night
as you observe how my body will soon react…


Our Song

Image credit: Max Dupain

Spinning the same song
that connected us
gets harder to hear.

Each verse cuts deeper
into what never was,
what could have been;
the longing to be near.

With my fingertips crossing your beard,
your fingers grazing my thighs,
those longing sleepless nights
I’ve waited to be alongside
the one that knew the depth
of my emotions,
facing eye to eye.

Sometimes it’s a choice song
so I don’t forget the closeness
of someone far away.

Sometimes it’s a random appearance,
stops me in my tracks;
nothing else
could stand in its way.


The Elephant Moms

In a distant land there lies a village of elephant moms.

They’ve bonded over time through struggles and times of joy.

They lift each other up and surround themselves and their families in love.

They carry the torch from one to the other in times of need to keep the light shining.

They heal, protect, feed, and nurture each other.

These elephant moms unconsciously subscribe to the way of the pack and before too long they’ve become stronger together.

I pledge to be in your pack.

I pledge to protect you from harm’s way.

I pledge to heal you when you are weak.

I pledge to feed you when you are hungry.

I pledge to nurture you to become a stronger woman, mother, friend, sister, daughter, and wife.

I pledge to be there in times of need.

I pledge to lead when you need to follow.

I pledge to support you and lift you up.

As I know that you will do the same for me.

Dedicated to Amy Miller, 1979-2017


Separated Not By Love

You set the scene,
describe it so perfectly;
what we’ll do
what I’ll wear
where we’ll go
from the first moments of excitement
to the height of pure ecstasy

But love,
it’s a trembling sensation
that leaves me wanting;
wanting to lay with you,
to feel your warmth next to me

The cool breeze from the window
attempts to ease
the burning between us
but fails as we don’t let up

And my mind wanders from that scene
to thinking
what all these years between us
could have been,
all that we could have done
but I guess it’s not that bad
for our love
is still just as strong



One by one counting memories:
An old photograph of us at the beach,
A sweater that won’t rid itself of your scent,
Books and CDs that you lent,
I’ve packed them away
They won’t see another day

I’ve packed the boxes,
Made the plans,
The rooms are empty
But I am motionless

Is it that familiar look?
Is it that morning glow
That paints itself through that morning window?
No, it’s these damn memories that aren’t letting go

Listen to more of my poems on SoundCloud
This poem, along with others, can be found in my book Coffee Shop Sessions II: Moving Mountains One by One


The Oak Tree

The oak tree
Unwavering and sturdy
Tells us how to be:
Don’t break so easily
In the slightest change of wind

Climbing back through my childhood bedroom window
Landing on shards of broken glass
Crimson oozes slowly
As I pray each stab is its last
So much has shaken me since my first landing
Each step taken cuts deeper than the beginning

Looking back
That oak tree mocks me
He speaks, “Steady now
for like the days of an oak tree
shall the days of our people be.
He has sent me here to mend the brokenhearted;
To shine a light during the mourning.
Remember from where you have fallen
And you shall return to that which bears fruit.
Listen to the ways of the wind:
Rejoice for His love has been given.”


Revolving Door

Image Credit: Baloncici

He says, “you’ve been a great lover,
opened up doors for me,
been there when I needed you
but I’m going to leave you, woman
for I know you could do better than me”
He picks up his suitcase,
then he’s running out the door

And that’s the way it is
that’s the way it’ll always be
lovers in and out the revolving door

She says, “I’m going to leave this town
so much has been given
and I’m grateful for what’s been
but I need to get going
for I know I could do better”
She packs her things,
then she’s running out the door

And that’s the way it is
that’s the way it’ll always be
lovers in and out the revolving door

There’s always a path to something better
there’s always something else that will find you
all the sweet things that you dream
she sends a postcard to check in, say where she’s been
but he doesn’t look back, throws all those lost loves into his sack

And that’s the way it is
that’s the way it’ll always be
lovers who dream
and lovers who leave