muse

You are my muse,
sitting in the branches,
presiding over me
as I write
beneath the tree.

You are my muse;
I make love to you
in my journal.
I turn the pages
of our bed,
and write you
between the sheets.

You are my muse,
gazing down at me
from above.
Dangling your long,
golden strands.
I smell them.
I taste them.
I write you.

You are my muse,
the one with whom
I obsess.
You are my life.
My life is this poetry.
You are my poem.

tulip

This yellow tulip
grows among its flock of spring flowers.
They blanket the ground:
spring and yellow beauty
stretching to the sky,
reaching for sunlight
to kiss their petals
with a golden hue.

A single petal droops.
This tulip
opens more than the others,
exposing her
precious nectar.
Her petal bends down,
as the brim of a hat
faded with age.
Her edges
fringed.
A passerby
grazes it
with his/her pant leg,
coattail, or
spring dress.
She remains
alive
still stretching
for sunlight.

Soon,
she will fall,
sooner than the others;
but for now,
this tulip remains
outstretched,
included
blanketing the ground
in spring.

My eyelids are heavy
slowly beginning to droop.
They feel like
dumbbells;
my eyelids
are curling these weights.
They try to stay open,
but the weights
are winning.
10lb. weights are getting
heavier,
and h e a v i e r,
a n d h e a v i e r.
Soon,
my eyelids will
drop this burden,
and I will
sleep.

ZYX poem

Zebras are
yellow, living on a
xeric plain. No
water is found as the sun
vexes their dry bodies.
Understanding my mind,
trying to interpret the
sounds
running through my
queer dream.
Possible
omens that I will
never understand.
Mere sleep
lasts,
knowing how
jilting
imagination is to my
head.
Go from me, this
fantastic illusion.
Eliminate this
drone of
consciousness
before I
awake.

ABC poem

After the
blackness fades I
cry.
Don't let the sun
erase my dream,
for it may never return.
Growing
hot
inside, my love
jerks at my
kind heart.
Love
makes me
notice the
open air
perfuming the dew,
quenching the dry morning.
Rustling leaves
sound in my ear.
Time passes
underneath my
very soul,
water leaves my eyes; her
xanthophyll complexion
yearns to be dreamt of as I
zealously close my eyes.

untitled

Snow dancing in air
bringing a smile to me,
floating to the ground.
I see it collect,
blanketing the grass.

jazz

A lone, black man
walks home
late Christmas Eve.
The streets empty,
except for snow.

Jazz on his mind
warms his soul.
Snow dusting his smooth,
brown skin.
He's not afraid,
but rushes home to his family.

Quiet night,
warm beats of jazz.
He steps
closes his eyes
and goes home.

dancin'

Pointin' my finger,
shakin' my hips
side to side.
Movin' to the music,
dancin' a little.

Snappin' my fingers,
feelin' the beat,
closin' my eyes
still shakin' my hips,
movin' a little.

Feelin' the room,
move as I move.
Feet are tappin'
dancin' a little.

itch

My body itches and
I write feverishly,
scratching at the paper,
a burning I cannot ignore;
a urge that must be satisfied.

Ink flows through my veins,
bleeding myself
to relieve this pressure.

Thoughts, images, words
they must be words!
Struggling to choose the right word.

My body fatigues.
I am weakened, but
writing.

I sweat profusely
trying to put these words together;
not a poem yet,
not until my heart
stops beating,
my shaking hand
scribbles the last
words, and
i die.

My body itches...

writer's block

My mind is stuck
for lack of a better term.
The lights are on, but
the music has ended.
Writing is like listening to music
for the first time:
You close your eyes,
visualizing the notes;
You hum the rhythm
inside your heart.
Listening intently
looking for the right words,
for there are only right words
(no left words to listen for).
If you hear your music,
write it down.
If you cannot,
enjoy the silence.

think

one, two, three, four....
I think, think, think.
I think of my father,
and how he thinks of me.
Does he respect me?
Does he love me?
I think so.

I think of my mother:
two years ago, she passed away.
I think of the stale hospice,
the cancer, the grasping for breath, for life,
the death.
What was she thinking
in her final hour:
Does she think she lived a good life?
Did she think that I loved her?
I think so.

I think of my brother,
away at college.
I hope he is thinking,
any kind of thinking at all.
I think I should give him
more credit, but
I think he doesn't care.
I think I love him,
regardless of our past, our history.
I think he is capable,
if he only thought so.

I think of my family,
my life.
I think I have lived a good life.
I didn't used to think this,
but I think things will work out
in the end.
If I think happy thoughts,
I think I can fly.
I think life is short,
so I think
I will start living.

winter

I always liked winter the best.
The mornings I would awake
to a light dusting of snow,
the cool, crisp morning air
biting at my cheeks.
I always loved how light reflects off snow.,
turning night into day.
The grass, the trees, rooftops,
the whole world
seems covered by winter.
Winter makes me think of Christmas.
Winter makes me think of staying warm,
but enjoying the cold.
Winter makes me think of hot chocolate
and warm kisses with cold noses.
I think of snowmen, egg nog, icicles.
I always liked winter the best,
when I spend them wrapped up
with you.

to dream

I want to close my eyes, and
begin to dream.
To see all my thoughts,
riding on the merry-go-round of my mind.

Begin to dream,
seeing each thought move up and down.
Riding on the merry-go-round of my mind,
my Body wants to rest, but my Mind wants to think.

Seeing each thought move up and down,
who will win this battle over my soul?
My Body wants to rest. My Mind wants to think.
I think, I sleep I dream, I wake.

the forest

I am standing in a forest
Silence surrounds me
I am alone
I can see my family,
The ones I love,
But they cannot
See me

A stark realization blankets me:
I must leave them
I must turn around and leave
No good-byes
No last minute love to share
No time at all
I feel the force behind me
Pulling me toward it...
Toward the loneliness
I want to stay, but
Cannot
I want the warmth of life,
But I am cold
i am dead.

the forest becomes gray
the color of a storm
it is raining, but I cannot
feel
the rain on my skin
i am not wet
i am cold
water touches my cheek,
but it is only a tear
one tear:
shed for my life
shed for my love
shed for the warmth

i must go
to a place i do not know
i fear the unknown, but
most of all,
i fear leaving
I fear being alone.

I ask
the pages before me
looking for answers.
All that responds is another
poem.
Are there too many poems?
Can there be too many?
No one criticizes emotions,
laughter,
sadness.
Why must poetry be different?

The ink is my tear.
The world my memory.
My hand is the mind.
My arm is consciousness.
My body is the soul.
The poem is I.

surrounded

An hour can seem
like a moment
when you sit in the blackness.
The night surrounds us,
seeps into our skin,
and becomes us.
We are black
as the night.

Sitting on an old bench,
surrounded by blackness,
we are intimate.
A canvas of lights
lies before us.
We talk into the lighted dots,
to each other.

What is the purpose of life?
Love.
Hate.
Love turns into Hate.
Hate turns into Love.
I love my mother, and
hate her for dying.
She loves her sister, and
hates something, someone, some being
greater than us.
She hates explanations,
people saying it is better this way.
This is what God wanted.
She hates because she loves.

We breathe in.
the blackness fills our lungs,
does not leave us as we exhale.
The lights are still listening.
An entire city,
listening.
The wind blows.
It is easy to worship
the visual,
the world.
It is difficult to worship
God, any god.

I hate being mislead.
I hate being confused.
I hate that my mother is dead.
I hate that my brother is wasting away his life.
I hate that my father is unemotional.

Sometimes, I wish I were less emotional,
less worrisome,
less self-conscious.
Sometimes, I wish I were all the things
I am not.

Explore the world you live in.
Do not stop at the end.
Begin in the middle,
continue through the end, and
end where you begin.
Here, you will find yourself.
You will see a new beginning,
from which you can begin again.

I am drawn;
pulled toward something:
other conversations,
other lives,
different moments in time.
I am surrounded by
discussions.
People living;
voices heard,
smiles noticed,
solitude felt.
There is something more,
I seek,
something I must find.

I am drawn;
pulled toward something.
It is warm.
It is beautiful.
It is you.

Everything good in my life
begins
and ends
with her.
She is the warmth on my cheek
as the sun awakens me.
She is the first raindrop
captured in my open palm.
She is the tingle of a snowflake
melting on my tongue.
She is all of my experiences,
all of my thoughts and memories.
She is my life.

argument

Why does the mind say what
the heart does not want?
Why do I say
what I do not want?

I can't stop.
I can't breath.
I can't do anything right.

Why do I even open my mouth;
Why did I say those things
to her?

focus

I focus too much on
the sex sometimes.
On how many times this
week.
I don't focus on
the love sometimes.
I am a selfish bastard,
sometimes.

I focus too much on
the noise our fights make.
They make my ears bleed
and numb my head.
I get dizzy when we
fight.
When will it stop?
I worry too much,
sometimes.

I focus too much on
the money sometimes.
Too little, not enough.
Money leads to fighting,
and fighting leads to
noise.
My ears bleed.

I focus too much.
I focus, and still focus on
her.
I never stop focusing on
her because she is
my air, water, and fire.
She is my life, and
I love her.

Her hair tickles my face
before I close my eyes.

My arm fits the groove
of her body
before I sleep.
Her smell fills me
as our breathing becomes regular.
I press her body to mine
as I begin to dream.
We lie in each other's arms,
in the position we have memorized,
because it feels right.
We feel love.
I close my eyes and see
our past, present, and future.
They are interwoven together
with our love.
Pieces in my mind, my heart, and my soul.

I hold my girlfriend,
my fiancee, my wife.
I feel my lover, my best friend,
and a part of myself.
I feel myself connect with her.
I don't want to let go.
We sleep now,
the way we will when we are gray,
We love now,
the way we will in forever and a day.
If time should stop,
let it be now,
as we bask in our love, our shield
from the world.

Her hair tickles my face,
and we sleep.

father-stuff

Am I filled
with the same father-stuff
as he:
coarse and cold
and hard?

If so,
let me rip apart
my seams,
tear out my insides,
drain all my blood
onto the floor,
until I am but
a shell.
Then, let me
find some new,
father-stuff:
white, soft,
warm and close.

Will I love
my child
the way he loved me:
distant, cold,
task-oriented?

When I become
a father (my father?)
please let me
find some new father-stuff.

poet again

I want to be a
poet again.
Perhaps I never was
one, but
I want to bleed
my feelings.
I want my soul to grab
this pen from my hand.
Let me show you how to feel!
I want him to take over:
The Hopeless Romantic that
I used to be.
She love me more then,
or so I think.
She says she will always
love me, that man that I am,
but I could make her cry
once.
She would read, and my
words would blur in
the pools of her tears.
Was that me?
Am I lost?

I want to be a poet
again.
I want to write her,
and pour my feelings
over her.
She would drink them like
sweet water,
because
she is dying of thirst.
She needs the romance.
I need it, too.

I want to be a poet
again.
I never stopped loving
her,
feeling her.
I never stopped.

Mom

I have gotten in trouble
since you past away.
I have waited for you to yell,
but I cannot hear you.
You are not here.

I have fallen deeper into love,
Mom.
More so than when you were here to
smile at us,
or shake your head in disapproval.
You are not here to tell us
what our future holds.
You cannot be a grandmother.

I have done things
since you past away.
It is all I can do,
because you are not here.
I must continue to live,
because you have died.
I wish you were here,
but you are not.
I must continue to live and love.
I must, and I will.

anniversary

I want someone to watch
adoringly as she sleeps.
I want someone to kiss goodnight.
I want someone to hold my hand.
I want someone to talk with me.
I want someone to smile when
I laugh.
It is wonderful to love her
so beautifully
with desire.

I watch adoringly
as she sleeps.
We kiss to quench our passionate nights.
We walk together
holding hands
my heart in hers,
her heart in mine.
We talk until dawn.
We smile, and our bodies are united.
We love and cry;
we hold each other
encompassed in adoration.

Time comes and goes,
the years sweeping through us like a warm breeze.
An eternity has passed
and been shared within our hearts,
our souls, our bodies.
Oh, how love lets us live!
With every passing day,
the bond becomes stronger.
I love you, my sweet darling.
How I look forward to
rediscovering you
with each breath I take.
Every moment in time,
as my eyes open,
I love you again.

magnetic poem

Think sleep, friend, and ask why you truly fall into it.

Do you escape the wake?
Do you visit the familiar?
Do you stay because you are afraid to leave,
or leave because you fear staying behind?

Essential shadows rob some goddesses of their dream.

Some steal your sun,
some comfort the lonely.
Are you the goddess they seek?
If you look too hard, they will disappear.
Dream sweetly, my goddess, and let your shadow listen.

When you dream, do you hear the colors in your mind?

I love in whispers,
languid and delirious,
beneath my dreams.

I shine on your beauty,
and soar through these black moments.
Yet, the wind will blow in my face.
Guide me through.

I lust behind her music,
her gorgeous power.
I am a frantic ship in a winter storm.
She is a petal, the light I see.
Her skin is smooth and bare,
a wanted picture
that I keep in my mind.

The thousand weakest shadows will not cover me.

hate

I'm scared
when he calls someone a faggot
or uses other hate words.
I'm scared
when he raises his voice.
I'm scared
when his friends come over,
and I can hear the beer bottles clanking together.
I'm scared
when he uses drugs.
I'm scared
when I'm alone with him.
I'm scared
when I sleep.
I sleep with my door locked.
I'm scared
when the brother I used to share a room with
disappears,
and I look into the eyes
of a monster.
I'm scared
when we fight.
I'm scared...I am so afraid of him.
I'm scared
that he will read this poem,
and hate me even more.

stillness

The stillness of the night
blows in on a cool breeze.
The room is still,
as I lay working on my bed.
The soft humming of a fan in the corner,
and the soft clicking of my keys
is all that is around me.

I have slept to those sound before,
but tonight I am awake.
I am alive with ideas about life and love.
I try to express each thought,
but all that emerges is my silent voice.
I want to tell people of the shortness of life,
about the richness of love,
but that has all been done before.

What is left to write about?
The questions I ask myself ring inside the tower
of my head.
My mind climbs each staircase
searching for answers:
one answer, the answer, any answer.

The stillness keeps me cool and relaxed.
I let myself wander,
and I think of her.

Her golden hair, so bold and bright,
lays on her soft shoulders.
Her hair seems to be sleeping on the softness of
her self.
Her lips touch, subtly.
Only the finest, most soft bristles from a heavenly brush
could have painted those beautiful lips.

My face is relaxed, but my mind races.
My body is still, but my heart pounds with the fullness of
life and love.
My skin is cool, but my blood flows hot when I see her.
I am a quiet spring morning.
She is my hot sun burning bright within me.

In the calmness of my room,
her love is rich and warm and full.
In the stillness of my body,
I long to hold her.