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Sonnet IX

So as these strokes form words on the paper,

Think my touch drawing patterns on your skin.

Each loving curve, a dance from here to there

As my hand moves on the page to draw you in;

High and low, my heart swells with its motion

As I imagine yours beating with mine.

Each line, a sweet caress with precision,

Connects our minds that we may so align. 

Every kiss my pen leaves with its tip

On every inch of the page till it’s full

Is one more fiercely planted on your lips;

I linger for their taste before I pull. 

   On the last dot, my words are a song made whole;

   And I surface from the depths of your soul. 

Sonnet IX

February 5, 2022

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They Sing of Us

Faint, gentle,

the distant singing;

I hear them every morning

as the first wind blows,

carrying their voices

to my sluggish ears,

rousing me from dreams,

calling to my heart

with a careful legato,

to the tune of your name. 

I wake to greet another day

in a world made beautiful

by your presence. 

As you turn

to open your eyes,

I touch your face

through the ray of sunlight

sneaking into your window 

while their voices soar

to a grand crescendo

as they sing of us,

and slowly

glide to a low hum

to let us know

the world is alright;

the world is brand new. 

They Sing of Us

February 2, 2022

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On a Blue Balloon

On this ungodly hour

when you are deep in dreams, 

I go down

to the unsleeping city

where the skyscrapers 

are built from fantasies

and the roads

are made of stories

of heroes

who brought lost citizens

home. 

Up I float

from my desk

through the windows

on a blue balloon,

sailing down past the oceans

to the realms

beyond consciousness

where you wake

with a dear smile,

waiting for me.

There beneath the waking world,

I take you in my arms

to dance

our silly little dance

under trees of gold

while the Earth spins

momentarily out of reach,

just until I’ve sneaked in

the sweetest kiss

on your sweet sweet lips. 

On a Blue Balloon

January 28, 2022

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Stories Over Pastries

I know I get carried away

too easily,

and maybe it’s too early

to bring out the pen. 

Words don’t come easy;

I do not use them lightly.

I only wish to write

what I can

to let you know

you inspire me so. 

I don’t mean to hurry

or ask you to marry,

but girl you should see

you light a spark in me. 

Somewhere

beyond this horrid nightmare

we live in, 

I dream of a place

where I can see your face

free of the fear

of losing what we hold dear. 

I don’t mean river parks

or fields of roses;

just a little cafe

where we can stay

till it closes. 

Maybe we share stories

over some pastries,

talk about dreams

and possibilities. 

Maybe it turns out

we don’t have a lot

of similarities,

or maybe we walk away

knowing we’d come back

another day. 

Either way, 

I long to see the day. 

So, what do you say?

Stories Over Pastries

January 7, 2022

12:55 am 

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Haggling with Angels

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

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When Night Stole Daybreak

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

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A Thousand Fields of Tulips

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

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Sidewalks Drunk With Salt

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

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A Scent That Flavours the Air

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

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Sonnet VII

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