sweet love, sweet lover
welling up to eternity
- Holy Spirit forever.

She's wrapped herself on the wall
With her fragrant pink flowers
In bunches of disheveled disarray

And when the summer wind blows
It sends a gentle floral shower
Of blossoms and scents my way

At night, under the moon and stars
I inhale her. With her I love to be
And though I dally and play with words
There can never be a poem as she.

That year caterpillars ate
The Cabbages-

No soup but
A flighty crop

Of White-Winged
Butterflies

Tonight, I lie in bed and
scribble in a black spiral
notebook.
Why is cruelty easy for
some? Like laying down
a card.

One of my three cats,
Mojo
sits sleepily on
my old maple desk.
She is all black.
The computer screen is
black.
So are the speakers,
microphone,
and a coffee cup that
sits on the desk.

Above my dresser is a
quote by Hemingway.

"There is nothing to writing.
All you have to do is sit down
at a typewriter and bleed."

It's on black paper.

I've had the room set up
this way for over a year.
I'm just noticing all the
blackness.
Midnight in Nod.
It could be because I miss
my daughter.  She's seven.
All the black fades away when
I think about her smile
and those eyes that laugh at the
rain.

I notice that my shirt
is emerald green, with a
few drops of red.

Plop
Plop

Plop.

Woke up to shovel snow in the rain
So cold and gray
Another day
Another day
Another day
All just the same
Still waiting for the warm
Waiting for the light of day

to my love who’s away:

there are fireworks here.

we can smell sulfur in the air.

my skin is tan now.

the leaves outside my window flutter in the warm maritime air.

do you remember when we would wake up to seagulls?

your eyes looked like the sunrise.

i miss waking up in your arms.