Woke up just after sunrise,
my partner already risen for work,
when, to my surprise,
the door flew open
and in she strode, flowers in hand,
followed by:
chocolate chip waffles, oranges,
strawberries, raspberries, blueberries,
bananas, bacon, eggs, toast,
mimosas!
She lit the room, set all down before me,
then joined me for the feast
while my heart beat,
and beat,
and beat!

seeping the darkness
into my skin,
the moon managing to mingle in
through the blinds,
creating a lined ceiling,
stealing thin strips of the night's space.
I lean back in a sigh,
close my eyes in an attempt,
a desperate attempt to part ways
with the woken world,
but no break comes,
no fissure from reality,
cut by cosmic scissors,
to swing down,
down,
down
in to
sleep.

A fall from the sky,
better than any angel,
and no need for wings,
to arrive in my waiting arms
filled with adrenaline love.
A gift to my eyes,
like rain pouring over
a dry savanna,
pooling into watering holes
for my parched soul.

Falling used to mean
plummeting, parachuteless,
toward an abrupt end.
Now it's more like floating,
knowing the return to Earth
will hold more,
that we will arrive safely,
gracefully,
and keep on lovin'.

Poetry is a drug,
production of rhyme the high,
the vast divide between the pen,
the paper, and the scribe's mind
causes the low.
When it goes, it goes.
I hate when I don't have it,
when I do, it's beyond pleasant,
it's heaven.
Too bad it seems I'm only a part-time angel,
flying for moments,
spending an eternity in hell.

It's days like these that I feel haunted.
A strange urge that I fed,
led me to set up a desk outside,
to provide a peaceful place
to read.
But a slight breeze
pulled ominously through the corridor,
a plane groaned endlessly,
a mournful moan.
Even though the sun was shining
I felt it in my bones,

hollow

I work next to a lake,
which spreads out from the base
of a mountain.
Everyday the stony guards
reflect off it's surface,
the trees motionless in the breezeless
landscape.
I never hear the birds,
nor the occasional fish splash,
too occupied by my dash,
the clicks, keyboards, spread sheets,
plugging away at the base of a mountain,
filling the frame
above my desk

Jake sits on the rocks,
perched above the watering hole,
silently observing Dad and I
hopping from stone to stone.

He doesn't want to get wet,
doesn't mind being alone,
I'm unconcerned, aware
of Jake's distaste for unnecessary dampness,
though Dad complains
that Jake never joins in the fun,
wanting close proximity to his son.