poem

More or Less

a poetic response to A Longing Less Refined by Tom Alexander

You call for less words,
less distraction,
to sink yourself further.
But do you realize
the sensuality of your words
fuels this flame?
How without them
this connection wouldn’t exist?

Cut the words? I say keep them coming,
stack them higher and higher.
Not to the point that a wall divides us,
but a tower that we’ve built together,
one that others stop to gaze upon.

Let’s both receive a piece of the dream:
exhale your epic words over the valley between my thighs,
while fingertips explore, reading every inch like pages of braille;
string kisses around my neck while peppering verses;
tell me the source of your inspiration.

Let’s write the story of our lives;
how every moment we’ve longed to be in this space, mere inches away.
And here we are: tongues dipped in verse and exchanged across a sea of sweat.

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

Forgotten Opportunities

Now featured in NovaBards Anthology 2021

Throughout my time, it’s been seen
mistakes are easier to see than beauty.
We point out the negative, the faults.

They stick out and prevent us
from seeing the truth of the matter.
I find myself questioning if

it is in our nature or how we’ve been taught
to pick apart every detail and focus on
what could have been better.

Recently I found you, you misspelled tag
on a poem. And you, you forgotten period
at the end of a line. I found you too, you

misspelled word in a poem about the sun
shining down upon you. I see you all,
and you do this to me on purpose,

to show that we are not perfect,
to know that poetry is life and life is not perfect,
and love, our love is not perfect.

We are inevitably flawed and yet I wish it all
to be perfect. I want poetry to be perfect
as it pours directly from our hearts.

Beneath our skin, beneath our shell, our heart
pours out the truest form of emotions
and we strive to reflect our true selves in poetry.

It’s a cyclical battle:
we want to tell our stories,
we want to show who we are,
we want to become something greater
through poetry.

So, when I stop at those forgotten opportunities
I say, “I see you. I get you. I am you, too.”
for we have all been that forgotten detail in someone’s story.

Thank you for reading

poem

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.
poem

Simple Thoughts

writers ponder over verses
but words become mystified, inadequate.

where other poets generously use adjectives
and sweet metaphors

to describe the mysteries of life,
i have the simplest of thoughts:

i think of you,
i think of us,

i think of our love,
and i think we’ll be alright.

poem

Tears of a Poet

When I think of Carlos,
a beautiful soul of a man,
emotional, heartfelt poetry bleeds through
Tears creep on the brink of every reading
His hand held over his heart to keep it in
He makes a mark wherever he goes
The rhythm of his words flow
And it leaves you speechless
All you can mouth is ‘wow…’

Pondering over poems to capture what I believe in
A work of art always in progress
Instead of writing, I digress
I want the poems to come to me
It should be so easy
Poems used to flow without trying
Have I run out of reasons for writing?

‘Dreams are boats’ one poet says
It leaves me wondering,
Have her dreams already sailed on?
Are they docked and staying afloat?
Has she a ticket to the party boat of dreams?
Or have her dreams met the fate of the Titanic?

Whichever type it is, big or small,
and the condition it may be,
It got me thinking
And that’s what beautiful imagery does in poetry
It leaves you wondering, wanting to dig deeper
If there’s no wonder, no mystery, why bother in the attempts of poetry?

poem

Three poems

a poem written three times, each version has its own distinct story, while a line or two remains the same.


heeding the pull
of my heart,
messengers of truth
warned us from the start

spoken dreams know
their own curse,
silencing them now
timepieces have reversed

our covert love
begged for air
as buried keepsakes
pained to be bare

our connection:
seductive,
aimless; as we weep,
counterproductive


failed to ignore the
pulls on my heartstrings
after attempts to neglect
repeatedly listening

intimate poetry, I know
every verse
returning to it again now,
timepieces have reversed

like seagulls flocking
along the breeze
deep magenta love
floated out to the sea

what started this connection
with a seductive whisper
fell asleep
with a silent whimper


sprouting from the underground,
reaching for the light,
messengers of truth
tell us the news

spoken dreams
awaken us now,
emboldened by our own worth,
timepieces have reversed

our covert existence,
like buried keepsakes
begged for air,
pained to be bare

our struggles,
spotlight moments in
Hollywood movies; as we weep,
the only way we’ll be seen

the dust
has not yet settled
we will not give up
until each of us is handed
a golden cup,
a symbol of worth
a symbol that we are
no longer defeated,
we are the new leaders

poem

Writer’s Block Strikes Again

Gather your jumbled up thoughts
jot down some fleeting words
numerous adjectives,
superlatives, and delicious nouns

Describe the scene
a setting to explain
it most certainly could be this
only it could be better

Conjure up a lost love
hint at a depth of longing,
desire, fulfillment, and regret
but give yourself some credit

Leave your readers with faith:
love eventually wins
love yourself enough to see
your words are what keeps them waiting

poem

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