Author. Poet. Actor. Playwright. Director.
I woke up bargaining
with God knows who again;
some greater force I imagined
could change the way
things turned out to be.
As if it’s not enough
that I think ginger
would turn into chocolate
just because I want to eat it.
Yet here I am haggling
with angels,
trading gold and silver
for an arrow
from Cupid’s bow
with hope
that up it would go
past the stars and the atmosphere,
down to your heart.
Haggling with Angels
December 16, 2021
Rain washed paradise
of its fiction;
the pink pigments in the sand,
the figments in the island’s
mirage-like glass walls
where dance the silhouettes
of movie stars
off a black-and-white picture,
melting away
with the sporadic heat
of the sun.
Where for but split seconds come
the spark of daylight,
dimmed away
each time the winds blow.
There it settled
above me
as truth did
in the warm afternoon glow;
a set of pearls
radiating
from the other side
of my window—
only my soul could reach.
For but one morning,
it was mine;
I owned paradise
before the squall poured
and night stole
daybreak.
When Night Stole Daybreak
October 12, 2021
You smile like a million
sunrises
rising from the pit
of a pounding bosom
where sprout flowers
with petals flaming—
cool as ice;
rose, lilac, gold, and white.
As the glimmer in your teeth
and the tingle in your voice.
You sing like a thousand
fields of tulips
in spring;
easy as the touch of the breeze
on a string.
And I, watching
from the foot of the hills,
listen.
For but a moment,
all is real.
A Thousand Fields of Tulips
October 2, 2021
My tears are falling
in New York City,
and the people walking
under it know so.
They look up to the clouds
above their heads
and say,
“These are the tears
of one who once said,
‘This is home.’”
And the sidewalks drink
the trickles of salt,
never once erasing
my footprints
from the asphalt,
never once forgetting
my steps
that danced on it daily
without fail,
without halt.
As they slide
down the windowpanes,
watering
what remains
of my touch
in the towers, flowers,
every passing hour,
in the smiles and laughter
of those who scour
for love
under the tearful shower.
Sidewalks Drunk With Salt
August 30, 2021
It’s just a whisper now,
a scent that flavours the air
when it rains.
No more echoes,
just a distant sound;
an old phrase
that catches on
in passing.
I greet the Jasmines
in the morning,
light of heart,
rid of the heavy thorns
of roses;
no deep red petals
to drown my senses.
I am free.
Free to take the Lily
on its dare,
if it finds me.
A Scent That Flavours the Air
July 5, 2021
Never have the stars looked so pale and plain;
I haven’t half the heart to look up.
My heart will not sing the same notes again
As once it did from the mountain tops.
Love’s low sweet breeze does not come this way twice;
What fool am I to seek it in this place?
And in its place, the wind of love’s demise
Comes sweeping its confectionery ways
Off to distant lowlands and the seas,
Consumed by creatures big and terrible
And wash to shore to the roots of the trees;
Not in my hands are they ever to fall.
High and low, wherever fate doth brings me,
I will not see love’s face, if it kills me.
Sonnet VII
May 13, 2021
I dreamed a beautiful scene
tonight;
cradling you in my arms,
showering your face
with little kisses.
You asked why I wept
and hushed me before I could
whisper my fear;
you said you’re here.
And I felt myself break into pieces
as I stood
to turn on the light,
and picked up the pen.
Midnight
April 5, 2021
Then came the day I decided I would
Stop writing of drunken love and passions;
Then came the day I learned that I could
Trade the high of infatuation
For a union of the placid kind
Not the brief intense turbulent affair,
Not the addiction of the frantic mind
But a lasting connection that dares
Let go of such a chase life-derailing
And choose content in love’s sweet silence
Over that which burns in flames but passing
For there is better joy in its absence.
So do I throw my foolish fancies away
And set my heart to see that fateful day.
Sonnet VI
March 23, 2021
I’m writing this as my sixth sonnet because I decided to scrap some of the earlier ones. I’m allowed to do that, right? Anyway, it’s my body of work so I guess I can.
There’s a wrong-ness in the air
that would neither settle
nor move along.
It brought vague questions
and cold sweats that tingle
my feet;
the sky is pale
and the dog is howling;
the wrong-ness,
artless and raw.
A waning moon showed.
It is now dark out.
Fangs in the sky
start to dance,
gnawing at my gut.
The hour on the clock
is wrong.
So was the color of my sweat
that I have just washed
down the drain.
The only thing right
is the certainty
that this wrongness exists.
But I must not come find
where it rests
for I have gone that way before.
And the only end
I would meet
on that path
is more wrongness.
Yet it rattles my bones,
like they’re wind chimes
out in an approaching storm.
A Wrong-ness in the Waning Moon
March 8, 2021
Start the coffee,
Let the morning brew
As the carafe collects
Every hot drop
Of thought in your mind;
Shape it into a cup
Of comfort
That there is yet another day
To be slurped
While it’s warm.
Taste the ground
From which the tree of its
Beans came;
You decide
How to play the game.
Draw the curtains;
There’s no longer a reason
To hide.
Time moves
In your favor;
This is the hour
To take back the stolen years.
You’ve clocked out the darkness
In your sleep;
Wake up from the dream.
The rays on your window
Say hello,
You’ve stepped out
Of the shadow
And into tomorrow.
Wash your face of the stains
Of tears
And your mouth of the bitter taste
Of loss;
There is sweetness
To be found
In a fresh pot.
Smell the steam of hope,
Let it boil away the failures
Of yesterday;
You will hear
The music of the roaring brew
As it extracts every truth
If you would just
Start the coffee.
Start the Coffee
February 8, 2021