There’s something there…


say it was in the stars,
something supernatural led me to you.
say it was the moon
pulling my tides closer to you.

it’s something deeper
than a mere connection.
it’s something in the waiting
& it grows with our knowing.

you can’t put your finger on it.
there’s something there.
some will call it ‘love’
but it digs in so much further.

it’s in our details,
to the blissful silence
from a longing stare
deep into each other’s eyes.

it’s in the wanting
and never getting enough.
it’s in having someone who cares deeply;
nothing will ever change this feeling.

it’s in the way we don’t need to talk
but when we do
it sends signals
straight to our hearts.

it’s something we’ve never felt before.
a striking phenomenon.
how our hearts and thoughts run away with us.
for now, we’ll call it ‘love’ until we find a better word.

A rewrite from an earlier posting on June 6, 2020. Thanks for reading.

Breathe Again

Image credit: AstroStar

out of darkness
the night sky sparkles above

as a sailor’s friend reminds all
of its surrounding splendor.

the twinkling is the same as it’s always been
but brighter than we’ve allowed ourselves to see.

somewhere across the horizon,
underneath the same vast sky

you’ve been thinking of me
and at last, we can finally breathe.

*a rewrite from the original poem posted June 29, 2020

Change in Vocabulary

I need to change my vocabulary,
remove the apologies & negativities,

peel back the layers of insecurities.
I’ve wrapped myself in them for so long,

years of comfort built in the hiding.
Yet each layer peeled back leads to discoveries,

why certain layers were brought on at all.
He recognizes them, understands them

& slowly eases them away.
I need to stop apologizing for what I’ve become.

It’s not too late for change.
I need to change my vocabulary,

speak a new language,
dress myself in new robes.

In Solidarity


He looks to the left, a quick pause to check the commotion.
There’s shouting crying out on the street. Stomping boots,
signs in hand. It’s another day, another protest, nothing to
worry over. She questions him, “What’s happening?” It
could be anything, or nothing at all. They want attention
and this is the day they chose to be seen.

“You should go, I know I would if I could.” She embraces
the urge to signal solidarity. She recognizes the lonely pillar
of strength squawking into the void. She’s eager and enlivened
to join. “They need us,” she tells him. The artists, the movers,
the shakers. But they march where no one is watching. With
no real audience, nothing will change if no one is listening.

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

Don’t Walk In Anger

I twist in the night, in anger.

I wake in the morning, in anger.

I know the dreams are just dreams

but the aching is tangible,

it’s at the forefront that I can’t shake.

It’s too early to feel this way, with holes punctured through the heart.

A feeling that I’ve been used as target practice.

Congratulations, you’ve won

You’ve robbed me yet again from waking with the delight of a new day,

from appreciating the sound of rain

from appreciating the joy of sleeping in

from being eager to seize the day

from wanting to spark a conversation

from the lovely moments a couple should spend in each other’s company.

No, what you’ve done is created years of silence and regret.

You’ve created a longing to escape.

You’ve created thousands of miles between us.

And each step I’m taking, I’m moving in the opposite direction.

I don’t want to waste years in anger.

I don’t want my children to witness silent anger filled with despair.

I don’t want to hide my feelings when they question what’s wrong.

I take a deep breath and sigh.

There is love out there waiting.

These years will pass.

The storm that consumes and derails will pass.

And we will live under the sun.

Yes, these rainy day Mondays filled with aching & longing will one day be filled with the peace of love.

Or so we can dream.

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.