How you do it:
Lock your arms around her,
and rest her head on your chest.
Enclosed in that embrace
she hears her heart race. (Or is it yours?)
And brace herself for the unknown.

You turn words into melted ice,
cold, searing the skin.
Even her name sounds foreign in your mouth.
A term of endearment
for a lover, on a retrouvailles.

How you did it:
Built a prison
in the rubble of memories.

Forgive me
if I don't wait for you.
Pray that I get there
long before you must.
Travelling always trumps
arriving,
hopeful or not.
The terminal of one leg
of the trip
is merely a
point of departure
for the next
(so it's been said).
So let's pack a cooler,
call shotgun,
and ride with me
for so long
as there
is road.
When my stop comes,
say the words
and hold me
until I take off.
I'm afraid
you'll have to drive
the rest
of your way home.

Writing about him
Is an addiction
That I convince myself
Is in remission,
But my heart knowingly
Sees through the deception.

Writing about him
Is an undying compulsion,
Just like loving him is.

she treads unholy ground where you have faltered
shoulders broken soul to see you rise
she would kiss the sacred salted waters
seeking only sweetness from your eyes
her knees are buckling, carrying a burden
soft as love and heavier than stone
lips release a sigh that's only heard when
she feels safest, thinks that she's alone
tenderness to touch and heal the wounded
child within you hiding from the world
forgiving feet walk 'round the evil you did
bids you sleep, her arm around you curled
she's the reason flailing poets try to
grasp her gracious great unreasoned why.

I caught the art thief -
he was a mastermind really
for he got such precious paintings
out of the Louvre easily
The amazing thing was
I caught him just minutes
from the museum;
his Econoline van
- would you believe it? –  ran out of fuel

Sure I asked him how
he could make such a mistake
steal so much treasure
and run out of gas just meters away

And he sighed with a Picasso face:
*"Oh ****, Monsieur!
I’d no Monet
to buy Degas to make
the Van Gogh…”

"A poem written by a drunken poet
**** inebriated by beauty so rare
and thought his words would be
immortal but did lack coherence"
on seeing her for a while, he gathered
"This beauty sure has a raw appeal,
but needs someone, patient and deft
with  experience to polish and edit,
to bring out her true effulgence"

She was watching him keenly in silence
Are hearts capable of exchanging notes?
Her eyes shone as if she read his thoughts
"A rough stone, precious, am I,  found out
from a distant mine, no definite shape or
remarkable shine, no one tried ever to cut it
and chisel fine,  so that light 'll reflect from all faces
carets not clearly known, will you take it in your hands
and consider it as thine, lavish your love on it
and reveal the hidden beauty, that's ravishing
born out of sedimented carbon,soot laden on outer layer"
her eyes spoke to him in silence, and he smiled.