You shifted like a sheet of silk
And called to my attention like a tiny golden bell
Left ringing a tower
Or a fragile, crystal flower
Winding slowly through the bower
To an opening where feathers slowly fell

From angels who had yet to soar
For, even now, they watch and wait and pray to see you there
With fingers long and slender
And their hearts forever tender
Offered forth in soft surrender
In the hope to be a ribbon in your hair

You drifted like a feather lost
And beckoned me to follow like a compass made of June
In lands of weary winter
Where the sun was but a splinter
From a door I couldn’t enter
To an opening where night was not immune

From little stars you left behind
When up and up you went and left your tower in the mist
And so I set to climbing
To the memory of chiming
From a bell that kept it’s timing
In the hope to be a ribbon on your wrist



I met a girl from yesterday that wore, as if reflections in her eyes,
The halo of a melting sun
Behind a grinning moon
So, in a sea of little coffee cups where books are a disguise
I heard, but also felt, as none
Could feel except when swept away by little paper notes of never, maybe, soon

Where distances were moments set between the soft facade of never – more
And music – even missing so –
Was made of lyrics still
Just like a faded, old impression left behind when pages tore
So that I needn’t see to know
That all departures were impermanent from there where ever – more was really real

I told her of tomorrow – but here eyes, they only saw the day before
Like silver crowns and banners blue
And palisades of chance
With gentle arms around the fair that should exist in love and war
I felt, but also heard anew,
The song her somber heart was playing as if asking me if I would like to dance

And there between the islands made of coffee cups and half-remembered books
Where people spoke, but rarely heard
How could I not but rise
As if a leaf within the wind that never cared just how it looks
For she had stolen every word
And my tomorrow, all the same, the girl with yesterday still shining in her eyes


What can I say in prayer when she, it seems, is all the aura of the moon?
And burns as if a candle in the darkest room of night
So much I wonder, if before I knew her name, I knew of sight
As if my heart was made of thread, and she was nothing short heaven’s only loom

Upon her brow a crown that not an element in life could truly forge
Nor could a hundred million hands with all the time to spare
Or all the alchemists in all the world to lay the circuits bare
She is a queen within a palace in a land beyond the sea, beyond a gorge

What can I say in poetry for she who has a soul that is a sun
That lights a universe but sees herself as but a spark
When, to my eyes, she is a flare when all the world is cold and dark
And, from her lips, a simple word would see my soul, for her, as won

As if I were a crown, or else a pendant, or a ring for her to wear
Or just a bit of flint to light the candle of her day
Or else a hand upon her shoulder when her fears have gone astray
Or just the words, “I’ll always love you,” whispered in a way that only she can hear


There are spiders and their empty webs
Set strewn as tattered banners catching moths, and butterflies, but never birds
And waving out like missed hellos
When wishing yes we met with no
We take the autumn leaves and tell ourselves, “This is the best that we deserve…”

There are lonely panes we dress in fog
From breaths we never meant to take but cannot seem to hold a minute more
And drawn as if a lover’s note
On glass for those we never wrote
We take the phantom trace of little hearts, and settle low behind the door

There are corners holding dust bouquets
Offset like faint reminders of the treasures that we sought but never found
And set to steps of yesterday
Like dancers who no longer sway
We take the record static making angels out of dust upon the ground

There are little moths and butterflies
Set sadly in a web of, “Maybe this is for the best, and not the worst…”
And dancing still with fragile wings
They dream of absent birds who sing
And wonder where the spiders went
The window words, and what it meant
When angels settled low and slept
In all the dust they sadly kept
And why they never dared to take the steps and say the words that they’d rehearsed…


I drink her in in gulps and gasps
I inhale her world
Cascades of smoke like the billowing trails of incense
Perfume that rests like Neptune in the deepest oceanic void
Eyes with storms
Her tongue like lightning
I sail her oceans with sails tattered
Anchors tossed
Elric on the shores of oblivion
Poseidon on the last, stretching vestige of some terrible and desolate shore
I smoke her words
Ichor in my lungs like meanings behind definitions
Like words beneath each somber sigh
And thoughts behind every word unspoken
She, resting as Gwynevere
That illusive sun that hangs dormant in some disconsolate sky
Some wondrous candle that burns in lands that drank so deeply of darkness
That even now, they bleed ink and bourbon
I watch her drift like ashes
Flecks of forever and moments of momentum
Some pale eternity that hovers and sinks
She drifts
And drops
And rises
And surprises
But I drink her in
In gulps and gasps
In moments and meters
In notes and small nothings
In chalices and choice chances
I drink her in
I inhale her fragile world
With these, my fragile lungs
Like ash and bourbon

Yeah, yeah, yeah…I said I was going back to rhyming. I had a line come to mind and I felt like running with it. So…anyway, whatever…


We sift through sand at times
Fingers looking for grains that either won’t slip
Or else
For grains that we need to see fall away
But days from now
…Weeks from now
… …Years from now
On days where we look back at beaches where we feared to swim
And talk of days we never dared to dream
We remember moons on cloudy nights
And suns when storms are at their worst
We see the sharpened edges dull
And the imperfect moments honed
Until they are so sharp
The only thing they can do is cut
So much nostalgia
…Rose-colored glasses
Memories of lipstick where lips never lived
And words never breathed
But memory is like that
We hold on to the things we want to keep
And we let the other things fall away
So what we’re left with is an
Imperfect r
Of imperfect events
Like putting a pretty frame
Around a lonely picture
With burnt edges
Hiding the places that hurt
Saving the ones that didn’t
Keeping the grains
And forsaking the hourglass
Looking so lovingly at those hazy mirrors
For the reflections that never really were
And hoping to see them again
Because that’s what memories are
The hoping for yesterday
In a world filled with nothing but tomorrows

I don’t normally do free-verse. If you follow me, you know this. Anywho…here’s a free-verse poem because…reasons…¬†


Like a chime of waking, marks the time I think of you
And though our worlds behold a distance
First an hour, then by two
To me, it never makes a difference
Whether skies are gray, or white, or match your eyes of blue
Or if the moment comes and goes in but an instant

To the chime of each arrival, eyes would rush to meet
Your words, regardless of the hour,
Whether it’s goodbye or greet
My words a vine, and you the bower
Coursing as if fingers on your spine beneath a sheet
As a bouquet of poems offered as a flower

With the chime of evening, when our moons are yet the same
Between the moments of departure
Where new messages remain
As if a kiss, or fragile art, your
Image lingers softly like a dream I can’t explain
For I an arrow, and, my dear, you are an archer

Like the chime of morning, are your lips upon my own
As if a breath of resurrection
Or the feeling like I’m home
Beholden to your fair complexion
In this crowded world where, evermore, you stand alone
My heart a clock that chimes for you with such affection