Asked I eventually for her name.
And she to me said, Miss Summer ***.
And thine? required the the fair dame.
          I'm Sexton. Yes,
    The Sixth Sexton Durex.

Told I her as she's frolickin' 'bout me free.

Although looketh she supernaturally gay,
On that beach, in her birthday suit;
But seein' we two were in pursuit
Of Sainthood could we not Hollywood play--
Except 'gainst temptation to pray,

From which a man should rather flee!

shadows
showing either the past
or the future
for a split second you can feel the rush of the present
but in all
we worry more about what is coming
or what is lingering
the great thing about looking to the future
is working towards it
the bad thing about looking back to the past
is knowing you can't change it
no matter how much you work
so keep those shadows close
and don't look to far ahead
or behind
and of course enjoy the split second you have of
the present

poetry is heart speaking
her deepest wisdom
or lightest whimsy
traditional form or free verse
let souls sing
sprinkle metaphor and simile
if you are a poet, write like one
words are music
let them breeze like a melody
color with mix-matched sensory
don’t stay inside the lines
see sounds with eyes closed
hear flickering of fireflies’ light
smell beauty in distant mountains
taste majesty of flowers’ bloom
touch forgiveness
bring personification to life
“she” is much sweeter than “it”
and a seat cushion may have a roundness to her
throw in some high speech
make someone grab a lexicon
delete those extra words
‘I’s and ‘the’s especially
alliteration can create cacophonic chorus
while similar sounds of assonance
tie hoards and scores of words together
although there are no rules
try your best to use poetry’s tools
with this above all else:
let your truth ring
let your insights and revelations
be a healing to self and reader
let experiences resonate in hearts
and harmonize voices

It’s all right, zombie husband.
I didn’t like the dog.
Or the twins.
Seriously, all they did was cry.
It’s like, “shut up, already”,
You know?

“It’s going to be a golden day”,
You’d say before you left
Every morning, I’d mourn for your return.
A golden, golden, golden day
Turns to night.
You’d get on that big metal bird,
And soar so high.
I’d look way up to that big blue sky
And I’d wave goodbye
At every passing bird
At every passing star
I’d wish and pray for you,
Until my knuckles turned white
I’d lie in my bed and pull my covers so tight
Over my head in my own cocoon
Where morning seemed so far away
When the sun would rise and everything was golden again.
A golden, golden, golden day
Ready to begin
A new day where
Maybe
You were safe and near
And Mom wouldn’t shed a single tear.
Arms warm and wide,
And I’d find myself nestled inside
Where there was no danger and there was no fear.
Now that I am older, I look out into that big empty sky
That covers all the places you’ve been,
It’s scary and wide, not golden like you said,
And as my world is zooming by
Like that big metal bird in the sky,
I wonder how you live each day with a smile
Across your face, I look for comfort,
And I see
Golden, golden, golden.

We were two introverts
surrounded by an infestation
of the dipsomania and delight.
Ingested by white noise,
flashing lights
and sin,
we stood sheltered behind conservatism
and our cocktails.
This technophonic cave
was crammed with lascivious men
modeling their lavish kicks and threads
in pursuit of non-commitment.
With our backs pressed firmly
against our salutary wall,
we felt inviolable.

But then, you turned to me.

Your chandelier earrings exploded
the luminescence and trepidation
into a million particles,
and through the deafening roar
of pandemonium and decadence,
you offered a wink and said,
“Let’s dance.”