poem

The Lost Sailor

a stirring voice beckons,
a phantom within a dream.
as i pencil my musings
the voice channels itself
moving deep within me.

laughter quickly vanishes
to reflecting upon the movement of the sea,
to the house
that no longer carries
childhood dreams.

the voice constantly searches vacancies to occupy,
from passing through stations
to platforms holding onto memories.

I attest that this is my screenplay,
but am I the playwright
or cast as the lead
at someone else’s hand?

and the nature of it:
a subtle arrogance,
brilliant confidence
with a touch of sadness
longing for ease.

is my gullible empathy a curse
or is this phantom character
penciled in verse
simply a lost sailor
strolling through life’s corridor?

poem

Love Meant to Last

For a dear friend


I could never understand it, always questioned it.
Never could see the bond that was between you.
But it was love, the kind that was supposed to last.

From the beginning outsiders were struck by the
secret love notes, booty shaking teases, and contagious laughter;
surely, that kind of love was meant to last.

Over the years and through monumental struggles
there was hope love like that was meant to last.

When your own family was finally formed,
despite the destruction that came,
there was still hope for love once had to return.

The strength and willpower was admirable,
to have your family your own way,
no matter if love chose not to stay.

Afterwards, unconditional love was the only way,
a mother’s love, a father’s love,
but his love was too high a price to pay.

Now as he’s looking down on you from the other side
you remind them,
love like that was supposed to last.

poem

Are We Home Yet?


You’re the gun
and the bullets
inches away delivering the deepest wounds.
I am wounded, fallen,
and hollowed out by you

Lying with my insides shredded
you believe it was all necessary to keep you sane

I beg you to save me,
if only you could see how deep these wounds run
if only you could prevent them from happening
if only you could truly see me for me
if only you were moved to the same depths by the same things
if only you channeled the same pains and could sit in the dark with me
if only you didn’t see things differently
if only we were emotionally in tune
then I wouldn’t feel shameful for the way I am
then I wouldn’t have to change how my brain works,
how it turns every difference into a negativity instead of opportunity

I beg for sameness, likeness, because that’s home
and I want to go home
fall sleep under the covers
and never wake up
poem

The Shoes I Walk In


These shoes of mine could tell a story if they could talk. And they do, they tell enough, just look at them!

Not the whole story, though, that’s what the voice is for, fill in the gaps for what people don’t see.

Ah, but that’s where I trip up. My voice doesn’t scream as loudly as these boots do. It doesn’t sparkle as much as my heels do. And lately the pace doesn’t keep up with each step traveled.

The shoes in my home are stacked high and low. A different pair for every season. Multiple shoes for the same activity. Winter Boots. Rain boots. Walking shoes. Running shoes. Sandals and flip flops galore. Most of the shoes selected are based upon an upcoming activity, not so much as a statement piece. Except for my recent addition of blood red leather boots, now those make a statement. The “I’m gonna kick some ass today” statement. Yet lately the pace has likened to boots too bulky, too cumbersome, to make any trek productive – trudging wearily through heavy terrain.

“So, get new boots,” they say. And so, I kick them off in search for walking shoes, which will turn into running shoes to outrun the mess I’m in. Anywhere else than where my shoes have been. And maybe one day I’ll see you at the finish line with my head held high, my feet a little sore. Whatever the distance, whatever it takes, to get to where I’m supposed to be. Anywhere but here.
poem

You Won’t See Me on The Side of The Road Standing Alone

Photo by Khoa Vu00f5 on Pexels.com

It won’t be me looking down
with tears streaming down my face
.

It won’t be me this time with my hands in my pockets
reaching for something that only comes up empty
.

It won’t be me opening an umbrella in the rain;
I want to feel what comes when it comes
.

And when it comes
I want it to feel good.

So when you reach for the paper to read the news
just remember it won’t be me this time crying the blues.