If I could crack me open
And see inside my mind
I really truly wonder
What on earth i'd find.

Aside from all the blood and guts
There must be something more
Perhaps a spark of magic
Or at least a secret door.

I passage way to dreamland
A train down memory lane
A nice comfy padded room
For the bits that went insane.

Since I really know me
I'm certain there would be
A stable block of unicorns
That only eat ice cream.

And in the darkest corner
There's probably a door
Shutting of a little room
Where all my tears are stored.

And around the whole thing
A great big wall stands tall
To give me strength of mind
When I am feeling small.

I'm entirely certain
That there's more than blood and guts
Perhaps there's lots of little people
In lots of little huts.

Maybe they keep me tidy
And when they go on strike
I get all bamboozled
And fall right of my bike.

Perhaps they paint the pictures
Of all the things I think
A hundred tiny artists
With sequins, paints and inks.

And my imagination
must be down to them
How else could dream such dreams
And forget them all again.

Spend a passing moment
Thinking on your mind,
The possibilities are endless
To what might lie inside.

i am sitting on the exit doorstep
of my roof
smoking a cigarette
talking to you
feeling you
can you hear me, lover?
speaking to you through this night
staring at the mauve clouds
heavy with
the reflection of grey city lights.
this night is cold and glossy
twinkling
serene
and i'm remembering
all those other nights
speaking to you from a distance in the dark
the nights
since the beginning of my life
now
you're a stranger no longer
i know those green eyes
and that tenderness running
its fingers on my thigh
the warm voice of home
the still silence
standing with you
on the back porch
smoking cigarettes
watching the rain
the snow
and soon the sun will
shine strongly again
the cats will come
out from hiding
they'll wander, strut in the
back alley and parking lots
and we'll be there together
standing still

For volleyball games with our kids*

and the grit of dirt slipping through your teeth
like a pancaked hand flat on cement surface.
Ball. Court. It is a good morning and
the sunrise rises to give life to the game. This game:
ours. We run and jump and sing; old bones

made to jog its memory. Bounces the ball and we run
again. Laughing like children. Next to the children.
Leaping after them. Watch as the ball rises high
in the sky next as outstretched arms give chase
to them: its hands caked with dirt; gravel on nails
from the swept cement rock and line paint. This we

share like a communion, a church service. Young
and old, here and not here we rise and we
fall prostate next to the prayers of the net, the brush of fingertips
against fabric against rubber, each palm
of the ball a Sunday chorus stretching, congregation, religion,

swept from the sky and made to kiss ground where
the gods of our sweat and grit belong.

In the silence of your breathing
My heart heals
My tears dry
My soul is at peace
In the purring of your slumber
My stress dissipates
My fears are quelled
My broken spirit fuses
In the comfort of your aura
I am who I am meant to be
I am someone I always dreamed of
I am... whole

A warm coffee mug
A shot made of blue
A blanket gives a hug
A poem rings true
The day is long
You’d think I’d get a clue
My heart gives a tug
When I think of you
These poems get longer
Though the words stay the same
As I’m left to wonder
Why you’re so far away
Yet it’s still a good morning
It’s still a good day
Because you’ve read this poem
And know I’m not going away ;)

A Cherry Blossom tree blooms in the bleak of winter,
out of place,
irresponsible and
gorgeous.
in the midst of dead winter
nature is drawn to this tree,
or maybe it's nature,
holding on
for dear life in a freezing planet.
but as the snow begins to fall,
the flowers fly away
with the snowflakes
like a butterfly's mating dance.

A summer goddess she might be,
but warmly she waltzes with the snowflakes in
my head.

the truth runs wild like a tear down your cheek
the truth runs wild like the rain to the sea