It has been said,
that poets know
what love is.
I am still trying to figure
that one out for myself.

I can describe the weakness
in my knees,
the stomach flips
(I equate that with feeling nauseous),
the lurching of my heart
into my throat.

But that’s not very poetic
is it?

I could do better,
equate it with
the rising sun
though I really detest
daytime hours.
Perhaps it’s in the Spring
with flowers in bloom,
birds chirping,
bees buzzing,
even though
those things
are the death of me,
and Benadryl only puts
me to sleep.

No, no, no
Love is undefined.

It is laughter

It is bubble thoughts shared at three in the morning

It is sitting in silence and being comfortable

It just is.

And sometimes,
love is when you
preserve the heart
of your lover
in your favorite book.

In my case,
you can preserve mine
in a mayo jar
on top of the ‘fridge.


Does the man on the moon
know he’s made of cheese?
That lovers place their hopes,
dreams upon him?
Does he hear the screams
of the wrecked lives,
the lost innocence
of children everywhere?
I wish that man in the moon
would wipe the smile
off his face.

Air brushed across
the core of my mind,
rushing me to find
some surface to play
with ink,
to give sudden birth
to inspiration.
Draw it out,
line by line
Make it grow,
watch it mature
right before your very eyes.

Pick pocket muses
strolling through the masses
going unnoticed, ducking
behind shadows of the disbelievers
Feeling an electric jolt
from across the world
and back,
A butterfly just flapped its wings.

Achieving Immortality

July 7, 2008

“Though I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains”~ The Boxer….Simon and Garfunkel

In those words, I find despair, triumph, and finality. It is known among my friends, that when I die, and I will….as we all will, it’s part of the deal…I want The Boxer to be played at my funeral. I don’t want it to be a somber occasion, either. By all means, break out the booze, the words, the music. Remember me in poems, in my corny jokes, remember me by my horrible taste in B Rated Movies. But don’t cry for me.  Though I am leaving….indeed.

I am aware of my mortality when I look in my child’s eyes. I am aware of it, when I think to myself…”I have o seen only 30 springs”. It seems like my life has been a long adventure, and yet, in the grand scheme of things…30 is not even a blink in the cosmic eye. I am still a baby, learning my way. It’s been fun to say the least. 

There are still things in this world that I need to lay my eyes on, like the pyramids of Giza, the Eiffel Tower in Paris….speaking of….color me romantic, or a bum…..but I want to write poetry, sitting at an outside cafe at the Champs du Elysse…with a teeny tiny cup o espresso…bum around France for a week or so. That is a dream that I have had ever since I picked the pen up 15 years ago. I blame Dumas, and his Musketeers, really.

I wish to be all that I can be. All that I was, and am.

(To be fair…..I need to start posting my poetry. I convey so much through that, than regular rambling on prose. )