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 ****

The spring’s efflorescence,
the sunshine halcyon,
the withering rose fetching,
the ripple in the lake a talisman,
and the birdsong mellifluous,
is ephemeral,
yet quintessential.

Through wherewithal of it all,
we find ourselves pyrrhic,
because it passes like a scintilla,
but in our hearts, it’s eternal.