The milk man died last week.  I didn't
know him well, just enough to know his favorite
chew and how much he hated Fritos.

I knew his lover and her worn-out
windbreaker, her frizzled hair as gold
as her Marlboros.  I sold her a pack of silvers

once and she nearly snapped my neck.
They take (took?) their tobacco dead
seriously.  She hasn't come back

to work yet, though her five allotted
days of grief are over.  The empty
milk crates just aren't empty anymore.

Remember the sandcastle 
that we used to build?

It took some time
but little did we know
we have handcrafted our future

it was a hard work and patience
Passerby's liked it, others did not
but what do they know?
We had fun building it!

We were diligent to fill
it with sand
Sand that was formed
into an art of love
A castle that we both own

Yes, you will be the king,
and please, call me 'milady'
We will rule the kingdom
No negativities shall come in

Not until when we came back
Those sands of promises and memories
become pain
Everything was ruined
when the waves washed
our dreams away.

I want nothing more
Sea floors where we find the remnants of ancient merchants
Sunken while simply searching for profit
Soul entwined in sand and phosphorus
Body becoming whole with the glimpse of tomorrow
The marrow of my bones dwindling as light becomes food for my soul
I want nothing more that this
That I set my youthful mind on a distant star
And even time that ends will not keep me from reaching
Wine corks opened by delicate hands
Fingers that touch softly making me feel more
The warmth of my skin
The sound of my love in your beating heart
I want nothing more!
Nothing at all
Not a fistful of money and a palace to sleep in
Private jets and private islands
Where the air sings my name as I glide through her
And the sand on the beach wants me to lay beside her
I want nothing more
Than to be as beautiful as I am to you now
In my prime years of life, young, and eager hearted
Your visceral experience that taught me to dream
My dreams that spoke through the fog standing heavy in your soul
Your soul as a place my beauty alone reaches
I want
As simply said as the forgotten memories
The dead languages and foreign customs
The consumed today as garbage tomorrow
The son of the sun only rising knowing he will set
And be a glorious evening before all manner of darkness falls
I want only
That the beauty displayed by my face
In it's fresh form and grace
Is not
Could not
Would never be!
As beautiful to you
As my soul grown old
I want
That you will think me
As beautiful in my twilight
As I was
When I was young
That with each passing day
You love me more

I want

Sometimes I feel
that what I have
so closely
right next to me
is so very far
there is distance
that cannot even be
named
while inside me,
a wildness
that cannot be
tamed
and I long to
break free
travel to far-off lands
get closer to
myself
as I take the spirit-reigns
into my own hands
And all the while
as I wait
trying to find that
perfect moment
for escape
I gather the warmth
and light around me
wrap it around as one,
close energetic blanket
let it charge me up
refill the spots
that have become
empty
rejuvenate that
private inner sanctum
that so few can see,
those who know
and understand
the irony
for on the circular map
marked in cities, towns
and roads
are the ones physically far
who hold me so very close
the ones who know my mind
the workings of my heart
who help gather me into wholeness
when the seams threaten
to rip apart
They know
the meanings of the ways
that this heart spills into verse
and I see how physical proximity
can be a blessing, or a curse
because when it's an illusion
it cuts right to the core
stirring up pure loneliness
bringing longing to the fore
a heightening of confusion
when the door slams in your face
and you wonder why, in your home
you can feel so out of place
And so I bless this map
mark with pins my states of love
countries and landscapes of kindness
felt through the airwaves above
and with my own love in return
I immerse all the beautiful souls
We all share the struggles and victories
provide calm
when it's out of control

I cast forth my heart to you
Let it crackle through the wires
its electricity connects
and like magic,
sweet
love
          transpires

Salinity is the oar of my lungs,
as I crawl with busted knees and
drag my legs across the bottom of the sea
onto an island of your heart of night.
My pale feet embalmed in your grainy shore
colouring it  maroon.
Your violet light shining through my darkness.

You are my rebirth even after I've died a million times.

Sitting at home on a cold Tuesday night,
Is very like sitting on the previous night,

You can try musical chairs
In multiple rooms!
You can sing on the stairs
Or dance with the broom!

But the cold fact remains, as does the day
And your hours, they slip...slip slowly away.
And your poems never know...just how to say
What your heart might have given for a warm Tuesday.

On Sunday’s Canvas
our footprints sketch a path
across the sand.
Out of focus, others dot the beach.
Hands drawn tightly together,
our talk ebbs and flows.

This is Sunday’s Cove,
the rim where rivers end and tell their stories.
Afternoon sea and sky run together until
we are surrounded by what we feel.
Sand shines in a festive way.

Here at the edge of the world,
night is celebrated with wine in a water glass.
Beyond the surf, we do not hear the silence.
We wake every morning to brush new paths.