moon, or ocean?
i am warped by her tide
this time i do not land on my feet; this time
i do not come out dry
today the waters abuse me. the repulsive
warmth of liquid draining from my ear:
i would rather never hear again. but i could
still see your eyes that do not shine, your
eyes that are so empty and haunt faces
where they do not belong. scrape up the
tar from inside of you and tarnish everything
that my heart can love because i will always
think of you and every drink i take will taste
like your hungry mouth.

Hello to all my Hello poetry friends. I hope that you are all doing well.
I am so sorry that I have not been on here posting yet this year. The reasons that I have not posted are as follows. My mother passed away in late November 2017. I recently went to a funeral for a friend that died from injuries sustained in a car accident. Another friend recently told me to hat her son who is only in his thirties is diagnosed as having pancreatic cancer. A lot has happened since I last posted.  On a happier note in February a poem I had posted on here a few years back got published in a local edition of the Sr. Perspective in the poetry section of the newspaper. I wish you all a good and healthy summer.

Some days are tough bringing me to my knees
Some days I just need to remember to Breathe and believe that this too will pass.

In front of a mirror
My eyes stare at me
And my own eyes stares back to myself
A hand’s finger touches a cheek
And inspects the nose
Another hand tracing the mouth


I whisper to my soul
Lips moved up and down
“Don’t worry” I said
Speaking to my weighty heart
A pause…
Of coziness,
Shadowed by Uncertainty
A moment of a thousand interpretation


Turned and tuned
Twisted and shaped
All concluded in a web of answers
Noticeable closely
My other self is examining me-
Me who is preoccupied by self
Possessed by a blessed curse

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?