outside the ocean waves roared, and Jeanette heard their melody from her bedside.
the clock ticked a quarter to seven, but she’s was already late for work. water dripped off of Richard’s dresser. the bouquet of crimson roses fell over, but the vase wasn’t broken. “I’m leaving you,” was all he said as he packed his final bag.
the roar wasn’t the door slam, but the shatter of the glass frame on the nightstand. it
was a photograph taken the first time she laid eyes on the horizon of the kite beach. it wasn’t long after she remembered saying, “let’s just not go back,” a line she’d recite at her wedding reception.
she thought her dream of living in Cabarete with the love of her life left with the roar
of his plane. that was about sixteen years ago, but she’s still in love. her love was not the one she traveled to paradise with, but paradise itself.
You can only see the mountains,
from the fifth floor.
The post says, "no swimming,"
but the kids do it anyway.
He said she left a love at home,
"but I'll be back by the weekend."
We're all stuck years behind us,
and that seems to be the norm.
Snuggled close to the border,
but still in the home-state;
where the city is south of us,
so we go down, we go down.
"Hand over the glass,"
I wish someone said.
Weak stomach, broken heart,
sick for days alone.
If these nights are spent living,
I'd rather not live at all.
When the storm settles,
it's just the eye of the hurricane.
When you can't find happiness,
everyone else does.
solo piano and contemplation
songs in D minor to distract desolation
and turn it into poetry
bittersweet, solemn, raw emotion
encapsulated through rhetoric
into the sound waves, into the billows
a letter read aloud, a message in a bottle
with melancholy rigor,
and the finest of pledges to sentiment,
a vow to exhibition and art,
and commitment to fighting trespassers
but please, dear, don’t escape,
the woods of stability is for the wild
and those who are lifetime trained
so toast to passion, stay for the verse
delay the sojourn for the song and show
often rest is the answer to unsettling dreams
sip the grape vine, if you please,
but not forget the pen and paper by your bedside,
never neglect the manuscript,
not ever cease the creation
write away the man that left you,
destroy the character in your prose,
demolish the utopia he once yearned,
a poet’s fists are stronger than the fighter’s
for the writer’s battle continues beyond the ring
step out of the sorrow,
relay the violin’s lingering echo,
and one day the call outside will pause
for a tranquil summer day when you are not alone
the clock strikes 8:17
"the first book of the Old Testament?"
asks the professor
a temporary silence
until ten faint voices call out, "Genesis"
all off-beat in tempo
the professor scribbles on the board
as thunder roars from outside
"how fitting," he says
and if only everyone could understand
when I don't want to see the world
or the sunshine beating down on the floor
and if only everyone could feel
one another's pain, one another's gain
if we didn't see the heart transparently
I guess that wouldn't work
there's a reason for the things we are
thunder roaring in the sky,
what makes the gray clouds cry?
I think it's something in the air
but to be fair, I wouldn't dare
to blame it all on greed
as if every rose is a weed
The spring’s efflorescence,
the sunshine halcyon,
the withering rose fetching,
the ripple in the lake a talisman,
and the birdsong mellifluous,
Through wherewithal of it all,
we find ourselves pyrrhic,
because it passes like a scintilla,
but in our hearts, it’s eternal.
the pages are the frames
the words are the artwork
the publisher is the curator
the writer is the artist
the binding is the museum
the literature is the art
Who knew someone so strong,
could feel so weak?
How her thoughts scream so loud,
yet words soft when she speakers?
She’d only want the best,
she settles for much less.
What’s she to do when they’re all gone,
when there’s no one left to impress?
When her eyes water with tears,
she climbs under another girl’s arm.
Though she might hide from the world,
a penny’s fine as her lucky charm.
from a glowing contraption
inhale the fruit
exhale the rings of desire
flow into me
from the fold
into the air
the warmth of the innocent
a freeze of the sinner
let it pass
we are majestic
we are young
in a dimly lit hell
the sun is out
but it will set
to bring in the shadows
and the chaos that follows
Time is not a picture,
in the century of hell.
Can’t you write the fate,
if you know the crown?
Can’t you draw the kingdom,
if you know the son?
“Words, words, words,”
your face is melting.
He said write anything and everything
He said sing something new and something old
And he said go anywhere and everywhere,
any day and everyday
Because you're young
and free to live
There's something wrong
There's nothing right
I'm here to live
I'm here to fight
I'm here to love
I'm here to write
go to school
get a part-time job
get a better job
get a promotion
start a family
lose your job
of a playwright
of a speechwriter
of a poet
of a freelancer
of an author
of a journalist
and to love
across the continent
just my disposable Kodak
and what's on my back
a bittersweet call
of Pomp and Circumstance
that echoes in the wind,
like a memory from a photograph.
soon the school band
will chant a Recessional song,
the brass ensemble roars
like an inspiring church choir.
today's hymn will become
the teenage years filled with misery,
we will forget, in years.
but we'll remember the times
as if they were golden.
the stimulus inside
from the marvels around
filled with wanderlust
captured with my camera.
write, paint, sing
or play the violin
to create new lyrics
and a new melody.
the aerial inspiration
is everything I need.
others need a someone,
but I am my own muse.
thick rimmed glasses
over those green eyes.
an unlucky day
for a lucky fellow
Friday the 13th
was the date
my dad got struck by lighting