Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

j.f

Where the river meanders for the sky’s embrace
Her lovelorn bank pines in the banyan’s shade
Blue ripples sing to soothe her travel’s stress
Lay me when all poems are dead in my head.

Write me an epitaph here rests the river poet
Who loved the cotton clouds mirrored on her breast
As her tides rose high laden with desire’s weight
He broke away from chains to madly sail her crest.

Where shines the moon makes the lover’s pathway
Flows quiet the river in her waves shadows sway
Night heron’s feet kiss her soft feathered bed
Lay me in silence when all poems are dead.

Lay me soft down make for me a space
On her alluvial soil in her riverine grace
In her diurnal shine and night’s saline kiss
The river poet would find his eternal peace.

Shades of solitude
Inviting me for a day of
self talk, truth finding

I hated the whistle,
because it meant
more human fodder,
made me hate God
& quit reciting
Our Fathers.

Yet I survived
to scream
another day,
thankfully.

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.

Can you hear me
dropping the pin
Can you see
my chagrin

I won't force this
dismiss my provocative nature

Pretend you didn't see
Pretend you couldn't hear