Reflections
How like water—still
reflections of mountains lie
on your face, shadows
anchored by glints of twilight
resting your eyes against mine.
How like water—still
reflections of mountains lie
on your face, shadows
anchored by glints of twilight
resting your eyes against mine.
Today, I woke up not-me, Alice-ish, peering
wasn’t it pretty….
how the sunset met the sunrise
combusting into light.
eloquent explosions
weaving daydreams into a tapestry of nightmares,
honey burning lips.
cherry-tart
never knowing where the sin ends and the saint begins
one of the many paperweights on a shelf.
my tongue travels through an ivory land of slick cliff faces, warm pink foothills, and incisors that cut sharper than lightsabers
you, one hand on my chest, the other cradling my head, running fingers through the hair I would’ve had if we’d met in college
together – a credit score that could choke an elephant, and enough health insurance for eyeglasses to see each other with
Poems grow
from seeds
and spiraled
weeds and
all the good
shit in the soil.
Some of them dream
of becoming books
when they grow
up.
creativity bursts out of something banal
what I’ve come to understand as ordinary
springs forth beauty and I realize
it’s all within me, ready to show itself
I simply have to listen, respond accordingly
let the dimly lit go, embrace vibrance
accept the path I’ve always wanted to travel might be
no longer under construction
Those who l
crept into my garden,
covered the painted rocks
and shells brought back
from the beach.
I would have left him alone
but Creeping Charlie
doesn’t play fair,
demands everything
and vainly insists
he’s too pretty to kill.
First, he climbs out of the cave that is
also known as his bed to reach the alarming
sounds piercing his ears. It’s time to get
ready. He’ll stumble out of bed half-asleep
and scrambles to make an iced coffee.
Next, he will throw on whatever clothes
that were previously ironed. Although he
knows they’ll be wrinkled when he pulls into
the parking garage in the city. Of course, he
still won’t feel awake and buys overpriced coffee.
Finally, he’ll step into his cubicle and wonder
both what to do and where all the time goes by
when the clock strikes five. It’ll be late by the time
he gets back home and he’ll be tired. It’ll be too
late to do anything meaningful. He’ll fall asleep.
