First April

April 9, 2023 § Leave a comment

I would rather miss you
so much that I suddenly can’t
bear even the sound of my own voice
than to have you gone and
have it not change anything.
I don’t want to be carefree,
and I will feel this loss as a hollow,
the place in my heart where you
are, still, and will stay.
I want to be less because you
are beyond the reach of my
text messages
you can’t tell me you’re on the way
or suggest we get together Saturday
It seems only right that
my whole being feels the stars
shedding light, the skies shifted,
and every falling petal misaligned
in the winds of April. Don’t
tell me that the beetles under the leaves
can’t feel my sorrow, that the
songs of the birds don’t include
a note for you.
I won’t believe it. I don’t want to. This is mine
to feel;
I know you would understand.

More Than I Would Want Now

June 15, 2018 § Leave a comment

That’s more than I want now
but it surely looks nice
A lake to swim in, when I’m only
a little thirsty
Beer, when a little bread will do
I don’t need that suite at the Four Seasons
when all I want is your shoulder to lean on
and the scent of you


Floating Leaves

October 10, 2017 § Leave a comment

As measured as the falling sand encased
within its glass pours its grains,
Our delicate threads of friendship baste
the pieces of a new pattern.
With Silver Needles, we stitch the hour.
Steeped into the tea we share
A quiet kind of renewal is fixed ~
A steady seam, a sure repair,
And the tranquility of floating leaves,
Fashioned to unfurl like a flower,
To mend what I would have thrown away.
With a paper crane I give wings
to the words I cannot shape to say.
Invitations, and green tea ~
These things hold a simple power.


Small Birds

March 10, 2017 § Leave a comment

Small birds complain in the softly falling rain
too light for the cover of my hood
it falls like a kiss from a friend.
I breath the sweetened air
as I walk uphill
and by the time the rainfall grows
I am walking on the broad way
among the cars and the crows
who never complain, but state.
Black bodies sleek wet or dry
They say a small bird’s egg
would make a fine meal
and pull greasy burger bags,
last night’s trash, from the bins.

Sometimes, I have something to tell you
that does not matter any greater
than the complaints of small birds
or the detritus of the expired night.
So like the crescendo
of this morning’s rain
here is my kiss.


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