The first time I kissed you, you felt like home. I kissed you again and again, all over until we realized at the same time and much too late that you’d had too much to drink. I would have kissed you when you left, too, but I was shy and you were beautiful and sometimes it’s scary on your first night in a new house.


You started a fire and I got there too late to put it out, to tell you I’m sorry they don’t understand and I’m sorry I don’t know your every crevice quite yet. The second time I kissed you, you welcomed me home and said sorry, I’m sorry that you don’t know how it started or where I put the lighter after I lit our home ablaze. 


I spent my heart pouring water on the embers of a grease fire that I thought was wood-burning. You threw sparks at me when I tried to tame the heat of your coals because I didn’t know how. The third time I kissed you, I called the old tenant and asked her how because I didn’t want to light myself with your manic flame. 


The fire turned to ash and the house got cold when I let myself in to rooms I hadn’t seen before. I used bobby pins to unlock the door instead of asking for the key; I suppose I should have known the abandoned nooks would have chilled the whole house. The fourth time I kissed you, your lips were blue and your eyes were open and I knew the flames were gone and I wasn’t sure I was glad. 


I don’t know when our house fell down. I was wrapped up in your eyes and how they don’t change when you smile at me when I looked around to find the walls on the ground and the roof blown away. The last time I kissed you, you said goodbye instead of goodnight and left me at the bus stop to find another home.

'You might find me,
with poems in my pocket,
A soul full of irony
names of lovers,
Skywriting in my mind,
each a stardust sprinkling,
of memories ever twinkling,
and there were truths,
Sifting through,
many expressed clumsily,
Beached whales drying out,
blubbering soundlessly,
Just another spectacle,
for those who do not understand,
To gawk at.......'

Have ye beheld (with much delight)
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry (double graced)
Within a lily? Centre placed?
Or ever marked the pretty beam
A strawberry shows half drowned in cream?
Or seen rich rubies blushing through
A pure smooth pearl, and orient too?
So like to this, nay all the rest,
Is each neat niplet of her breast.

Tantrums Of Genius
Tantrums Of Genius

Stay away from The - Mart

and it’s shopping cart

with a bad wheel,

Write on paper with

disbanded,forgotten

outlawed cursive,

not staring into

a computer with pop up adds

and trivial social media,

Have Tantrums Of Genius

Sip on a beer

or some wine

and close your eyes

in silence,

listen to the thoughts

twirl in your mind

like a Van Gogh painting,

paying attention to detail

as the thick blue colors

swirl into each other

creating a vibrant sky.

Listen to Mozart

softly inducing stimulation,

master’s calling through

space and time

telling you

of their frustration

in finding anyone

to listen to their message.

Read Ezra Pound

and all the others

the poet’s

who had the knowledge

the insight

to warn you of

a place with no creation,

filled with people

without imagination,

those who never had

Tantrum's Of Genius

Feel the emotion

as you start to pace

the floor,and look

out of a window,

and for the first time

realize that you

are surrounded by beauty

and you have ignored

every flower

and all of the color

that has not been recognized.

Maybe with anger

or with regret

have a

Tantrum Of Genius

As the truth

softly show’s itself

like gazing into

a Dali painting

slowly discovering

what it is you are looking at.

promise yourself

to often have

Tantrums Of Genius.

You're a beautiful mystery clad in gorgeous enigma.
You're poetry that looks good in a skirt.

There's an orchestra on your tongue, playing the sound of your voice like a melody I can't forget,
matching the tempo of the drums in my heart
and the broken strings of my violin compliments.

You are a notebook, a yearbook, a sketchbook, a burn book,
every facet of you written in swirling cursive,
rhymes and famous signatures snaking between cinnamon hair and cleverness.

You are a pen running out of ink,
bleeding dry in Barnes and  Noble Moleskin journals,
but that's okay because I have more ink,
and you can borrow whatever you want from me--
store it in the heart you stole if you're bored enough to hunt my words for the pieces.
You have the key already.

You're the first dream of the boy too scared of nightmares to sleep again.

You are the taste of honey and cigarettes on the lips of the first girl that boy ever kissed,
because she was a rebel and he needed a hero
who wore boots instead of Mary-Janes
and band t-shirts instead of blouses.

You are the rose he drew when he was bored,
an outline with potential,
mysterious, entrancing, incomplete,
not yet ablaze with the red of desire
because he was never good at finishing things.
You are a dictionary. Your picture isn't just under "beautiful."
It's under "dangerous" and "witty" and "myth"
because Medusa bowed at your feet next to James Bond and Edgar Allan Poe,
and you're too good to be true anyways.

You are a poem, a telltale heart beating inside a lesson in vengeance,
temporary only because nothing gold can stay.
You've walked past where the sidewalk ends (certainly the road less traveled by)
and come back far more darling than any buds of May.

(You are the paperback novel he read under the covers,
the flashlight only bright enough to show paragraphs,
and every new page unique in shape and form
while the text remains the same.

You are the raw words read aloud by the daring poet,
standing beneath midnight moon,
the power of the throne,
the breath of a whispered promise falling upon the ear,
the warmth of kisses on the cheek,
the passion of all hope there ever was in trust and truth.

You are the fire in lightning,
the sparkle in the snow and the glitter in the rain,
the fierceness of the wind and the gentle, soothing peace,
the blazing chill of winter and the roar of summer's heat.)

But you're still a mystery.
A beautiful,
beautiful
mystery.

A father looks deeply
  into the eyes of his son,
He speaks soft and sweetly:
  "Child, my days are done."

"I've loved every moment
  From the day that we met.
The day of your birth,
  And I'll never forget,
You told me you loved me
  Without using words,
I gave you my heart
  And you gave me the earth.

"And though my life's ending,
   I want you to know,
This is the beginning,
  Of life on your own.
So hear me right now,
   With these final breaths,
And I'll tell you how,
   Your life shall be blessed:

Sing with the water,
  Dance with the bees;
Travel the world,
  And sail on the seas.
Learn to enjoy
  The moments you have;
For now is eternal,
  Yet time moves so fast.

"Learn to love,
  And love to learn;
Light your passion,
  And let it burn.
Reach someone,
  Touch longing lives;
We are all one,
  Together we fight.

"Let go of hurt,
  Learn to forgive,
Understand others,
  We're all new at this.
One day you'll see,
  You'll blink and wake up;
And then you will teach
  Your son to grow up.

The walls of your soul that you
  Toil away building;
The windows are dark and the
  Bricks are unyielding...

( Hate, with a hammer, cracks the wall;
   But Love, with a whisper, makes it fall. )

How many times have I told you, Believe?
And then will you learn how to truly Receive.
  For giving is getting -- these two are the same;
  And living is learning to dance in the rain.

Why is it that we fall in love?

Is love a trap, a giant pit that we unsuspectingly trip into?
Do we lie at the bottom peering at the light above?

Is love like jumping out of an airplane without a parachute?
Do we flail helplessly as we plummet to the ground?

Falling is painful, uncertain, and something we try to avoid.
Except in the case of love.

I don't like falling.

I think I'm going to grow into love instead...