I awaken to a world of
familiar surprises and
Here, in this place,
time is not Time, but
the continuous smelling of
fresh-cut flowers on the kitchen table.
Poetry is our menu and
dancing is our trip,
strolling down each aisle
looking for tortillas, apples, chilies.
Sleep and wake are not defined, but
merged thoughts co-existing
with the fruits and vegetables.
Addicted to these feelings,
we prolong this world and
make it our own.
We cannot waste what is not real, and
is a surreal expression of weeks past.
- ► 2017 (91)
- ► 2006 (17)
- Let me ask you: have you ever been in love? I mean...
- a reminder
- cat scratches
- all things beautiful
- Under the apple tree
- I'm sorry that you can't see our love on TV. It's ...
- She comes to me at night when I feel alone and wan...
- Please, my love, let me hold your hands tonight. L...
- Focus on what lies ahead as you wander afoot. The ...
- You don't think I love you the way others do. You ...
- Ah, Whitman! The leaves of grass may be dead, yell...
- Oh sorrow! Oh depression!
- In the style of William Carlos Williams (or poems ...
- I am a flame burning brilliantly for you. My lips...
- The teabag bleeds into the hot water, slowly oozin...
- While balancing an orange on the round tupperware,...
- Within these walls
- the waiting room
- Modest Proposal
- #1 son
- A breeze blows in the night. With it, comes the in...
- Take me out of this moment, this place in time, an...
- on writing
- what the heck?
- mysterious country
- today, tonight
- two children
- on writing poetry
- ▼ March (35)