what other objects do you have,
to turn them into metaphors
that profess
your affections for me?
do not give me flowers,
or anything that exists in nature.
keep away the comparisons from seas,
the sun, and anything in between.
i have heard them all from past lovers,
& they all left me in time.

Blue grows the tulip
White grows the Rose
Here goes a letter
To whom no one knows

Light falls the feather
Bright grows the fire
Of the irony of love
I will never tire

Green grows the grass
Heavy is the dew
All this beauty
Is in tribute to you

A child to a mother
A moth to a flame
As timeless as tears
I'll never be the same

Minutes to hours
A day to a year
Because of these padded walls
We're all mad here.

Delicate flowers
blossom in the summer Sun;
A breathtaking sight.

Painted a masterpiece
In my dreams:
A Chilean villa.
Cactus streams.
A flower composed,
Wilted with time
With muted colors,
Tequila with lime.
Fields of desert
With tuxtla soaring.
Winding paths of
Wood and brick flooring.
A cool wind blows
Through the heat
Over sweaty brows
And sandaled feet.
A moment trapped
That’s never been.
A life of others
Never seen.
Put away my brushes,
Stood back to admire
The deep ocean sky,
The burnt orange fire.
It lay on the table,
Alive on the canvas
When waking did cause
My hard work to vanish.
In memory only
And never shown
Forever discarded
Once beautifully known.
My studio of mind
So often produces
A wonderful concept
With no practical uses.
I’d like to live there
And run those streets,
Take shade under awnings
Sampling savory meats.
But I’ll never go there,
Never see that place.
Never plant in soil
That’s been erased.
That marvelous day
Conceived at night
Keeps the dreaming
Forever alight.

The enchanting, unearthly fog
overwhelms the parking lot
and my small romantic heart.
This drab field of concrete becomes
a magical fen
the place where epics and legends unfold.
My feet lift lightly through the damp
and I dance with the shadows
transformed by the mist into something
fantastical.
The street lamps beam fantastic eerie rays
in to my wonderland domain.
Am I a storyteller?
wanderer?
faerie?
I think I am the beloved of a great Lover,
pursued with gossamer dreams
and romanced by sacred light.

To rest, a lumbering Whale
slumbers within a dissmal
green foggy depth of the
shadowiest waters.

Sleeping now, an
unawareness
but also cause for
That from which to awaken. ...

The task to rise for a
breath still,
Magnificent size,
its shape imploring -

Where life grants itself
from the essence
of which to it
also plays.

Paper scenery's hang
                             in the background,
          reproductions brought to life.
The sun casting shadows,
                        before bulbs expire.
But when the wind falls,
                  plugs pulled, the set vacant.