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?

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.

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

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.

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.

A Million Images Birthed by A Single Sound

Photo by Lucas Pezeta on Pexels.com

Hypnotizing like a new favorite song
a voice comes across the sound waves in our quiet home.

For hours at a time
we study every word, every tone.

Senses heighten to vibrations spurred
yet not once have eyes met where our minds travel,
not once have hands touched where our souls join.

How does a voice ignite the deepest depths in mere minutes
to anyone who’s listening?

Is it any wonder that we come so close
yet remain so far?

These moments play on repeat
fulfilling an everlasting desired need.

Will we get the chance to speak these words
that dance across the wind?

Will we ever strum the chords
that play to the music of the night?

Will we ever inhale the words breathed between gasps for air
And exhale the sweetest sounds as we lay bare?


Let us dream it isn’t too late,
Or in the dream we shall forever remain.

Right Outside My Window

Watch it as it goes
Out the window
And out into the world.
Watch as it no longer has a home.
Watch as it slowly slips through your fingers
But somehow you know it had a piece of your soul.

That void is opening, getting larger,
Slowly drifting out and now you wish it could come back home,
Even for a moment,
Just a moment to return the time
Where you could embrace it,
Or imagine what you could do
If you could pause it for a moment,
But it’s gone… it’s gone.

And it’s right outside your window,
Do you open your window
And let it accompany you as you wake?
Do you let it sing you to bed at night
As your heart slowly breaks?

And you watch it outside your window
As it slowly fades away
Into the distance,
Into a memory
That wants to walk away.

Grab onto the memory,
Let it linger and comfort you once more.
Just right outside the window
It’s telling you
‘Can I come in through the door?’

This piece came pouring out after the first two lines came to me in songThanks for reading.

you spoke to me

Eyes down,
eyes averted from the truth
I took a chance
A glance in your direction
Then your eyes met mine

Me in my red dress
You in that captivating charm
We couldn’t ignore the electricity that sparked
As we longed to embark on a fiery journey

It didn’t take much
A sly grin as a welcoming
A slight brush against my thigh
A beating began within our chests
And traveled to our loins
And we knew

And you said, “Now the real danger begins.”
It was a spark to ignite the nuclear holocaust
Everyone in its wake affected
caught by the fire
or deserted after the storm had passed

All I wanted was your hands lifting my red dress
To feel your warm breath next to my skin
To hear the song of poetry between two lovers
I didn’t want much but I craved it all
After that first taste.

A Birthday Poem

dust settles upon another year,
another book of memories
of short months and long nights,
tears wiped away again and again,
hard decisions made and my reflection says:
still I remain.

now a little stronger, a little wiser,
countless lessons learned,
and full of appreciation for love gained.

thankful for new connections,
others dismissed,
and others within fingertips reach.

out of it all
I am where I am;
no longer there,
on my way
with two feet planted
moving forward.

“Any change, even a change for the better, is accompanied by discomforts.” – Arnold Bennett

“Progress is impossible without change, and those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.” – George Bernard Shaw

“Change begins at the end of your comfort zone.” – Roy T. Bennett

“Don’t be afraid of losing people. Be afraid of losing yourself trying to please everyone around you.”

Wrapped in Chains


Contemplating her next move
the pounding within her chest
told her what she already knew:

she was nowhere close to break free
from the chains wrapped ’round her so tightly.

With the escape route blocked;
there was no sense in moving
for every wriggle tightened the grip.

Accepting her fate, another day
in this God forsaken place,
if it was her own doing
then it shouldn’t hurt as much.

All there was to lose,
the ghosts of future memories:
the would haves,
could haves,
should haves,
ought-to-do’s,
that ran through her soul
every minute she looked out the window.

If she remained grounded instead of lifting her wings,
maybe she could get used to living this way.

“Just don’t move,” she whispered under her breath.
And there she lied
as ghosts of future memories continued.