Green
is the color of the trees,
the luscious spring grass
that sparkles in the
creamy April sunshine
as I gaze outward
from atop the
monkey bars.

Sweet nectar of
honeysuckle and lavender,
a chorus
reverberating in my eardrums
of children giggling,
swings creaking,
runners thumping by.

I think of you,
your delicious warmth
that abruptly turned cold,
the chill and goosebumps
trickling up my arms.

I blink hard in the light,
brain processing thoughts
jumbled with
sadness
and
strength,
muddled with a dollop of regret,
sprinkled with
perpetuated curiosity.

The almost-turqouise sky,
toward it I stare,
longingly
in attempts to solve
the mysteries circling
my ever-chattering
mind.

Such simplicity
I see in this spring day,
at the playground
where I search
for my own
tranquility and ease.

Will I find
the answers
in the white buds blooming
on the bushes?
Or in the innocent smile
of a girl, no more than one year,
legs kicking jubilantly
as she swings high,
back and forth?
Perhaps then
hidden behind
the trunk of that tree
where a young couple
shares a secret,
sealed with a tender kiss?

Green are the trees and grass,
flowers dressed in beautiful
shades
of pink, purple, and blue,
sun bright yellow,
orange too;

my insides bleeding red,
your name
etched still,
carved into my
wooden heart;
I
bleed
out
all
last
thoughts
of you.

Closing my eyes
to all shades
of rouge,
I reopen
and take in spring,
take in the scent of the air,
take in the green.
You are gone.

A lone wolf;
Solitary soldier.
Too comfortable you have become
stumbling down a path
for one.

Blinded by
eyes closed
to the world that truly lays
beyond
your chosen screen
of wool
woven, cross-stitched with
Denial.

Hands you refuse to hold
as you boldly
trek
down the dusty trail;
howling out silently
so no one may hear.

Sporting a
mask
made
of self-loathing
and fear,
vulnerability the
enemy you choose to slay,
for surrendering to
a state of
naked, raw
passion
seems more frightening
than the darkest dungeon,
stormiest night.

Gulping down
another shot
of loneliness on the rocks,
not even a splash
of soda,
for you like the way it burns.
Inhale solidarity,
snorting your
line
after
line
of
self-destruction,
acidic dispelling of
feelings
chosen not to be felt.

Sometimes, though,
in the quietest of the night,
sitting on the lip of a deep
substance-induced-slumber,
you may whisper
in a tone you would hate
to be called sweet,
and the mask comes off;

till 2 PM,
waking and at it again,
alone, a lone wolf
howls
at emotional
sobriety
and takes another
drink.

Plush beads of summer rain gently kiss the windows,
pitter pattering steadily in contrast
to the low hums and stutters
of the red coffee ***
that saves many souls
lost in a daze of former slumber;
a lengthy stretch,
she leans back against the cream,
or maybe more ivory,
sofa couch,
wiggling it up and down her frame
and in its last push
released with a crack through the tips of her toes.

scrumptious smells of eggs and breakfast meats,
brunch is always her
favorite hour,
balancing the crisp texture of toast
against the delightful spritz
of OJ,
sometimes blended with a splash of something
sparkling.

the chords and rhythms that thrummed and purred,
the puttering, the humming, the stuttering,
a baritone chuckle
escaping his smirking mouth,
the moment so inescapably
charming,
how satisfying their ritual felt.

Lukewarm food
on a piping hot plastic plate.

Dinner for one;
again I indulge.

autumn
is when all starts to change
the wind
becomes brisk
warm summer air
slowly suffocated by
arms of an overpowering
cold draft, bitter, mighty
sun light
bright and splendid
shortens, shrinks, shies away
all the kids want
to stay in bed
for their sunlight,
guide, friend
it hides from them
more and more
as seasons change
and
there
fall
the
l
e
  a
   v
    e
     s
one    by    one
there they go as fall comes
they fall
red orange yellow
splendid eye candy
we see an
array of colors
all seems so
simple and
simply beautiful
or is it
something much more?
the real
fall, the tumble
of leaves
down the trees,
do you know what it means?
autumn is
           change
change to winter
the leaves are
dying,
slowly, rhythmically
they die
           one    by    one
they die.
Beauty? How?
In comes darkness,
in comes cold,
in comes
autumn,
summer's dying soul
that
is
winter.
I
am
winter.
You
were
my
summer.

The forest green of the trees
contrasts so greatly
against the soft pastels in the sky;
Did someone paint this neighborhood?

The odors of garlic & parsley
wafting from across the
charcoal street.
Hums of today's news,
all the latest gossip,
ooh'ing and ah'ing;
endless snippets of candlelight chatter.

Occasional dollops of light
peering up from sedans passing by.
Sounds of zooms
blocked out by the steady pulsating
of white earbuds.

Dogs yipping, sometimes a real bark.
Neighbors come and go,
reciprocating cordial hello's.

Street lights slowly coming alive,
for at 8:37, the sun has begun
its transition to slumber.

They always say,
TGIF, thank god it's Friday.
As day slips to nigh',
the crackles and pops of vinyl come alive
behind a slightly rusted window pane.

Tonight's secrets not yet revealed,
a couple strolls by
holding hands,
sipping coffees, decaffeinated.

A man drunk with regret
and a 40 in his belly,
he breathes a clumsy, "Hey."
Malted liquor questions,
their smell & sound, unmistakable gurgling.

Street lights now fully illuminated,
glances exchanged from
passer-byers.

He opens the car door for her,
and into the dusk they drive.
Vehicles come by in even
greater numbers,
and still searches the young man
for $9, a toothbrush, and a shower,
even cold.

Just another night of
just another day,
in just another city,
in just another neighborhood
on just another street.

Silence, loud, ominous silence,
filtering the senses,
the stories,
the magic;
Isn't ordinary   extraordinary?

I enjoy the way the pink spring breeze
grazes my rouged cheeks.
Though a little chilly,
a thrift store sweatshirt squeezes
back against my body,
shielding overwhelming brisk.

Jermaine's voice trickles between my eardrums,
but I pause a moment,
words of howdy, hello,
"Oh," I breathe, "yes, I couldn't
remain inside another minute!"
The hey's and hello's,
those are the chords of C, of G,
and, strange though,
how sometimes I prefer a flat or sharp.

Some chords though harsh at first taste,
they stew on the tongue,
relinquish sweet, succulent juice at last;
sweet reward,
satisfying relief.

I feel the grin stretch, slink
across my canvas,
the reverberations of a cackle,
boisterously beating against
my far-from-hollowed chest,
for full it feels,
full it is,
filled with filling full
of warmth, light, fulfilling fulfillment.

There is merely of tiny moments
a collection,
most prized,
as if I had begun many moons ago,
knowing did I do before I knew,
gathering each grain to
make a beach,
each blade of green,
making a lawn of bluegrass,
with a sprinkle of a flower or two;
deep within self,
collecting,
gathering
to now feel stillness,
& admire that treasure.

I gaze intently ahead,
streaks of magenta, a citrusy jaune,
(yellow of course),
juicy orange,
dripping into a soft
periwinkle,
reminding me of play dates,
chocolate chip cookies,
only the special, secret recipe
on special occasions,
today, could you be one,
every day, an occasion
to taste the secret recipe,
soft chocolatey, dangerously delicious,
melting into my tongue?
This sunset,
tranquil spring night,
oh how it tastes,
smells of the endless possibilities,
special occasions.

So wise, rich with knowledge,
how the recent past has left
me
saged with experience,
yet energy & zest,
of youthfulness,
I sigh outwards,
hard;
breathe in the wonder.

Family, friends, lovers,
neighbors, coworkers, classmates,
father, mother,
sister, brother;
the world uncoils, unfolds
like watching from the outside,
yet exploding within,
I burst outward.

My mind, oh does it race,
faster I am sure than
any body could carry.
It bends, twists,
molds, sinks, festers,
bubbles,
boom, pop, trickle,
it goes.

Creating art,
that is all we do.

I hear that sweet voice,
a melody of its own,
whispering secrets of past pain
and future plans;
I hold them all dearly, as
dearly can exist.

Strum my emotions,
pluck my thoughts,
slide down my dreams,
pick my desires,
bellow my fears,
harmonize my anguish,
release the echoing,
play the notes found
in the deepest chorus,
the sounds I can make
from the beating of my own heart,
the rhythm of heavy breathing,
giving birth to a story.

Still I am writing it,
but of course,
black pen smudges against
my tiny fingertips;
Mother always did tease,
for how I hold my utensil for
words, well, "That's just like me,"
she would giggle right now,
if she were to see,
that giggle just like the one
someone loves
coming from me.

A pen to a blank page,
again I go,
in due time the world will know,
and back to me will It boomerang.

Where there was once a sense of
apprehension,
the way this slow, meticulous wind smells,
tastes,
feels as it strokes my face,
all I may now ponder
is a simple, tasty desire;

The journey, how delightful it is.

There are tunes to play, sing;
oh how there are jigs to dance.

Mouths that can open wide & scream loud, but not shrill,
toward the heavens.

Smells to create with fresh baked goods,
peaches to burst open with teeth
hungry for its, their juices.

Flowers yet to bloom,
more in the tender April 'noons ahead.

Steps to stomp on a run in new kicks.
A soft pair of lips to kiss.

Jokes to be told.
Laughs to be shared.

Lines to cross.
Fast pulses to feel.

Claps of thunder to steal the blue sky.
Silent tears to slip down cheeks
worn from years.

Philosophies to analyze.
Friends to meet, greet, make, take; bonds to create.

Games to play.
Long, strung out giggles
from little ones,
innocence so pure & poetic.

Dreams to make realities.
Loves to have, but loves too to lose.

CIties to visit.
Language to speak, share,
stutter, misunderstand,
exchange,
accomplishing dialogues,
communicating in hushed
whispers,
sweet nothings nuzzled,
brushed
against my ear.

I've got some living to do;
living with me, but also
living with you.