poem

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.

poem

Have You Noticed

After Mary Oliver

have you noticed how certain poems linger
in the echoes of yesterday

how certain triggers replay
a certain phrase

how hanging onto words
engulfs an empty room

how walking through fields
begets velvet moonlit nights listening to you

how spinning a record after dropping a needle
births a mountain of longing and sorrow

have you ever noticed
that no matter how many times

you block out the sights and sounds,
they sprout their way back to your tomorrows

poem

You’re So Sentimental

*spoken word*

he says as it relates
to a date
of another first
we’ve had.

It reminds me of things
I shouldn’t hold onto.

It shouldn’t matter
when I first noticed
the way light hits his beard,
or how his colors blend
as in a Monet,
only that I see them.

It shouldn’t matter
when those butterflies first flew
from our insides;
only that they fly every time.

It shouldn’t matter
the date of our birthdays;
every day we exist
should be celebrated.
Our presence is a gift.

Yet I die a little every time
when it doesn’t matter.
Details matter.
And I love all of our details.

Memories serve as my card catalog
to pull out certain pages of our story
at any point in time.
The who, what, when, where, and how;
all those details matter.

If you want to know the song that played
as we kissed on Christmas Eve,
I’ve got it.
If you want the song that played
as we made love in my college apartment,
I know that one, too.
For when I hear those songs again, I set myself
into that space, that moment, that Autumn afternoon
as the sun set and we slipped quickly into the night.

I have them all stored and ready to play,
just say the word.
poem

One More Moondance, My Love

Originally published in Clay Literary’s RAVEN: https://www.clayliterary.com/post/raven-issue-eight-09-06-2020

A cool October evening presented itself in front of us,
the full moon in the sky hovered above, and the tension
between us lent itself to lyrics that resonated to every

following Autumn. ‘Can I just have one more Moondance
with you, my love?’ you sang as we walked arm in arm. It
was our first song, my first song sung to me. And to this

day, the smile, the tone of your voice, the way you
captured me, still sends shivers right through me.
From the first taps of the piano to the trumpet blaring

three-quarters of the way through, it all sends me back
to you. I halt everything to remember your voice, your smile,
to be wrapped in a moment with you once again.

poem

Deconstruction Site

How many times do we take
the leap before we realize
we’ve jumped in too deep

How many times do we stop
to realize we need to
protect our insides

How many times does this heart
have to break; this love,
you too shall take

He was the one healing
the deepest scar,
the wound he created,
only to tear it apart
as he twists the knife
churning everything
inside of me

poem

The Shape of Us

Image credit: Magnifier

The shape of our love, our version of it,
exists in bubbling thoughts of former lives,
constant dreams of distant hearts
where our lives are entwined

Ripples of waves intersect
jetting dangerously close
but never on the same path
turning heads, looking back

How do we get off this track
without losing control,
without knowing
where it will go

The inhabitants look upon us
making waves in their home
They tell us to let the waves subside,
transform our shape and go

poem

Show’s Over

Image credit Andrey Kuzmin

The production commenced
with actors on stage
portraying the love we once had-
the grasp of her cheek,
the look in her eyes,
as he folded over himself
to make her swoon his way.

Amongst an empty crowd,
the curtain’s now drawn,
the actors have gone home,
the final act is done,
it’s time to get on.

Hanging on for an encore,
hoping for another show,
relishing in the memories
and never letting go,
I can still feel that soft cheek,
feel those eyes resting upon me,
and those chains not letting me free.

The show’s over
but it plays on
relentlessly in the forefront
of this lover’s mind.

poem

Dear love

Dear love,
Thoughts of you the other day brought smiles. Today thoughts of you produced overrun swells in my eyes. The many years we’ve been separated, but how our hearts have always been close, how many more years will it be like this? Living in fantasy and memories all of the time is no way of living. The truth of what can never be, will I ever set these feelings free? This arrested state of bliss, of dreaming of our next kiss… and the pain of knowing that it may be a million years away. We’re so close yet always out of reach. I sit and dream of you, and wonder… will our dreams ever come true.

poem

Undying Flame

Images and words
suddenly appear,
words I’ve longed for
hitting deep
as they wrap around
and envelop me,
overwhelming yet satisfying.

Since our last meeting
your ghostly presence arrived
in the oddest of places:
romantic restaurants,
quaint cafes,
art galleries,
long car drives,
concert halls,
walking in a park,
every room of the house,
and late at night in bed.

Days leading up
to the most significant life events,
it was you
always there
intervening
and me not finding the right words
to express the emptiness,
the loss,
the longing,
the wanting.

Reunions are great, they say,
as long as you don’t have to deal with the past,
as long as it doesn’t control your present, and
as long as the flame doesn’t consume you.

Yet, here I am standing steadily in the burning flames with you again.