Some nights I lie awake
dreaming of a woman
who could make me want
to want to live another day
another year or maybe
just an hour or two
until dawn wraps her warm
arms around me once again.

have you heard the wind
the trees rustle
the wings fly by
the sea roar
watched the mountain
and wonder
sink down
on your knees
knowing this is life
the end the beginning
we are no more
than a bird a mountain a tree a leaf
a wave crash on the shore
a shell
maybe a sunrise
or a moon on the horizon
but nothing more

Poetry is art
A blank canvas and a brush
We paint with our hearts

Knowing smiles,
and playful eyes,
dancing into the night
with words rushing past
satin lips overflowing
into small,
but meaningful silences.
A light beckoning in the world,
to wait,
appreciate,
its singular illumination,
turning this place
more interesting,
and investing in all the
right places.
In these silly, same,
but so different games
we confess ourselves fully
in actions unveiled,
but tip-toe when
speaking, lest the gravity
of it all come crashing
through our lips.

I have people to support and impress and make proud
I don't have the time or funds to afford breaking down
So don't take me seriously when I consider the knives too long
I'm an adult now, won't use the pain, am convinced it's wrong

But I do bleed pretty.

I bleed deep red, it's mesmerizing, stains the floor and bed
I bleed like molasses, slow drops hit the ground like lead
I crackle like a fireworks display, bubble up into vertigo
My vision gets hazy and the colors smear and the light glows

But everything gets better and I'm completely reformed
I'm no longer lonely or depressed or feeling unbearably worn
I don't choke back sobs when I'm in a crowd or at home
I don't stare at nothing and feel impossibly alone

But I do bleed pretty.

Now, I'd never touch a knife, never would go back to those days
When blood meandered down my arm in a thousand different ways
I'd never think twice, never consider diving into pain
And no knife on earth calls with a sugar-sweet whisper of my name

I am happy in what and where I've chosen, would never trade
I have no second thoughts, regrets, no uncertain days
I enjoy life, can't begin to fathom why I ever wanted it to end
I am satisfied with the lack of people I have to call friends

But I do bleed pretty.

A drop on the floor becomes a puddle so fast it intrigues me
One towel becomes four, it still smells like copper, isn't clean
The sound of a blade gently coaxing skin apart is bliss
Only heard when blood rushes in and out and all is quiet.

I do bleed pretty.

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.

Enjoy the small things
Because you will yearn for them
When you feel empty