Pebble love

Loving is not hard.
It is as simple as
breathing out and
breathing in.

What is difficult,
truly sharp,
is knowing how
to make more

It is all well and good
for me to love you
to cup your heart in my hands,
and marvel at its beauty.
Consider your wondrous
texture and depth.

It is another thing, indeed,
to know how to cultivate
and tender its progress.
To lead that love into places
it needs most to grow.

Real love is not
passively looking into eyes
and treading water.
Reluctant to pull away and live.

Real love
the kind that makes
Is the kind that pushes
and cultivates blooming.

Challenges and confounds.
Chastises and grounds.
Makes messes and comforts loss.
Real love means growth.

Without it love falters.
Love becomes a pattern
that you do not know how to make bigger.

If you have never seen a pebble
drop into a puddle
you will not understand
that love is
about expanding circles.

I want to be your pebble.

Thinking Poems

Airborne Instruction

She had not considered
the way her struggles nourished her,
kneaded her stubbornness
into fragrant bread for mana.
There is wisdom in challenge.

She had not realized
the way her pains would assist her,
pause her mouth and still her ego
when friendship called for sensitivity.
There is respect in pain.

She had not imagined
the way her laughter would complete her,
pull her out of dark drafts of despair
into a moment of hopeful sunlight.
There is intelligence in comedy.

She had not anticipated
the way her eccentricity would teach her,
make her learn to drum a tune
not in keeping with that of others.
There is value in being yourself.


Ending of a poem

Have we become less then?
Has time taken that moment from us,
driven connections away and left me unaware
of its passing me?

It is like my mind knows, but my heart refuses.
Dimly my head wants to hide,
in covers rich with scented yesterdays,
and not acknowledge the open cut
that is my distance from you.

I lean my head against the nearest window,
ignoring the reflection of a paler me.
The original is always brighter
but more obviously sad.

I struggle against numbness.
It thinks to aid me by feeling nothing,
but I know numbness is only the pause.
After the pause comes the pain.

I have that feeling that is in-between
and in being in-between, has no definition
or true word to describe it.
It is just there, like a pocket of air,
stealing my contentment,
and leaving only sorrow.


Poison tongue.

Where did your soul go
so long ago?
When did its knowing disappear?
Why did that fragile shoulder give
and let slip apart your dream?
Where did your soul go?
Now crimson like the blood
that pours from the wounds
that you inflict.
Uncaring of your company.

Watch out you do not sliver into
some impossible to return from crack.
That steals your minute of innocence.
So mindful of what you lack.
Be careful you do not resemble,
those single dimensions you have drawn.
So finely appearing on a page,
so thin as to feel bony.
Like this truth I am hinting.

Be careful of the company you keep.
For their stories will become yours.
Each cold and thoughtless tooth
ripping out the throats of singers,
who only wish to sing.
These eyes may appear faded.
My beauty not seen, but known.
Be wary of those sweet words they whisper.
The truth is in the tone.


Drowning upward

I am shipwrecked by you.
Tangled in your seaweed.
Tossed by your waves.
Never certain if it is undertow,
or emotion,
that grabs and pulls my ankle
toward you.

I cannot define this crash of mine.
It is like unexpected water
with sudden chance of fish.
Changeable like the weather,
but startlingly beautiful
in places not prepared
for color.

My eyes are dazzled by reflections
millions of splashes
that ride concentric circles
around me and through my fingers.
My heart is becoming salt-water
lighter than I have ever felt
in my little pond.

It matters not, if I see the moon,
or am captured by the sun.
For I am equally certain that
they merely frame a reverence for
the passing of time
while I tread water
deciding if I am about to drown
or learn, at last, to swim.


Comfortable silence

Like a quiet breeze
you sit next to me.
Leg crossed elegantly
over thigh
made more elegant
by the lack of your noticing.

The way you love silence,
amuses me.
Transversing the well trod pathways
of your mind and memory.
Lingering on a phrase remembered
for only an hour or twenty.

My heart lingers on
the way you touch my hair,
lost in a thought.
Including me in your moment.
Indicating I am part of your calm
and comfortable.

Note*I wrote this poem because of an image in my head of a man sitting thinking while subconsciously touching the woman he loves. There is a sense of compliment in that image. To be the one that person is so content and comfortable with they literally forget they are running their hands through your hair as they think. I figure that is a kind of personal heaven.*



Learning curve

There are parts of you
that make me purr
lift the hairs on my back
and make my eyes close
into a happy slant.

There are parts of you
that make me growl
bring my hackles up
and my ears down
wanting to bite your ankle.

You have opinions I share
with precise lazer-like clarity.
You have opinions I don’t share
with  determined concentration.

A mixed bag of thoughts
some that agree,
from experience
some that don’t agree,
from understanding.



I want to hole up inside
the folds of one of your smiles.
Peek out only sometimes
to see the sun rise and sunset.

I want to dwell in the curve
of your  cheek
contented and calmed
in the smooth joy that is
a part of your very skin.

I want to remember myself
as you see me
and forget myself
as I imagine me.

You make me feel
like a million stars
granted my one wish.
All at the same time.

I get to be called mom.
There is no bigger blessing.

*My daughter will be 13 next year. How on earth did that happen?


The stark truth is a poem

Chilled like a glass
my heart wanders into reflections
of moist heat
and shatters from too much, too soon.
Ah! the splinters come to lead a path of red ribbon woe
straight into my tired eyelids.

Wrinkled copies
of beloved words
have memorized themselves
into the fabric of my skin,
are making homes
in the tendrils of my hair.

Sparks of maddened genius
loop themselves over my shoulders
and wonder what I am reading
at 4 am.
Is it something to taunt,
or something to tender?

Lay down your pen and bleed.


Press here

It feels finely pressed, this pale red smile
like a flower petal faded, but still good
yeah, still good.

I have known so many frowns
but not all of them were mine,
or meant there were angry faces.

My memories grow more loved
each day that passes into age.
20 gone, now 30, now 40..

I cherish even the stupid sun
that shines on my face and wakes me
gleefully, through my pillow shade.

I trace old scars and forgive them
they grow milder with age,
like pinchy shoes gone comfy.

There is something that happens
as the lines blur time
and you awaken to realize truth…

Just living is bliss.


Down to you

Part these lips.
Show them what speaking in tongues
is really all about.

Deduct from my spine
these endless streams of numbers

Let loose the ribbons
cut them into pieces of flesh
sewn together by scraps of humanity.

Drown my fears in cups of tea
and sympathy.
Show me the virtue in beginnings.


Pinched expression

closed eyelid
ready to roar
listing sideways
walk through a door
and wonder
as you wander
just what
just what
just what
is all this walking for?

furrowed eyebrow
curdled milk
slippery slope
like ancient silk
as we tumble
and bumble
another rabbits hole.

Let us be thankful
for little sips of tea
as we drown our worries
in misery
and shoulders.  


Stardust on his shoes

He always thought space would be cold
but her fiery passion was like the sun
able, with one touch, to singe his soul
and sweep away the dark side of his moon.

He was caught in her orbit
effortlessly spinning.
Hanging on the stars in her eyes
and somehow, despite himself,
he felt a humble peace
quite different
from the stark silence of space
that had once been his inner atmosphere.

He was not interested in heavenly bodies
or the black holes he saw others gravitating towards.
Lifeless eyes that drew only sadness.
He was, instead, quite taken with diamonds skies
of the Lucy variety.



She echoed in the dim light,
her straight black hair leaving memories,
as she walked with head tilted down
contemplating smaller beings
seldom noticed and appreciated.

Her hands cause a sensation,
wrapped as they are ,
around a basket filled to the brim
with poppies and snakes.
I think it is mostly the snakes.

She notices not the shadow
that follows her every step
cautiously memorizing
the shape of her back
as loved as ever a back could be.


fierce poems

Small speck of determination

To retain that small measure
of what is human
I give over to pain.
I let it mock me,
let it gaze with cheerful leering,
into the hopelessness
of my outer soul.

I let it feel victorious
and complacent.
For there is more to a soul
than what lies on the surface.
There is fire waiting to be stoked.

There is more inside me
waiting patiently,
for my moment to come,
so I may break free and soar
with nary a look back,
at pains astonished face.



Know it.

Don’t I know it,
those burned bits of you
left smoldering in the air
waiting for the brimstone to come
almost recklessly awaiting the ease of sorrow
whilst knowing the pain it will bring.

Don’t I know it,
those lost shattered fragments
that cut deep into palms
and leave a copper goodbye letter.
Horrifying last images
of a soul that deserved better.

Don’t I know it,
Those low down blues.
Those torn up shoes
that cannot find a solid memory
to help them walk forward.
Ease them with more soul.

Don’t I know it,
those tired shoulder slumps
that wreck your helpless heart
and threaten to dim the spark
that is a mind in tremble.
A bird that cannot sing.

Find these fingers.
Clasp these hands.
Lean upon these strong shoulders
built just for you.
Turn around and see instead
the mirror of my loving.
You are not alone.
Don’t you know it?

Memories of love

I walk this pace

I walk this pace,
more a shuffle step
then, a tap, tap, tap.
My knees bear witness
to the leverage of my hips
as I manage my shifting viewpoints.

I imagine my smile
would spark more conversations
if it were just a smidge
less crooked
and more bright.
But the dutiful day
full of questioning faces
and fake white smiles
gives way eventually
to another missing you night.

There is no easy entry
into the diary of my heart.
Wordless pages
reveal less
an empty day,
and more a shout of sadness
that cannot find voice
on a page that cannot understand
the weight of this pen in my hand.

I am not broken
or lonely.
I am missing specifics.


The things that matter most

The soft warmness that is your sweater covered collarbone.
That twinkle in your eye that cannot be captured by camera,
no matter how hard I try to grasp it in my lens.
The hesitant way you answer the phone,
even when you know it’s me.
The startled laughter that tells me I have scored
a home-run for banter.
Watching your hands, while pretending,
ever so vigilantly, that I am not watching your hands,
cause, you might think me strange.
but not in the usual good way.
Your gaze still has a way of making me blush
for being seen, always seen somehow, with gentle flood
of smiling.
I cannot deny that part of my affection stems
from loving the British that is your breath,
mixed with the excited stuttering, that is your happy.
Ah! How I love you!
Like every breath is deeper and every look is longer.
You are. You just are.
Often I try to capture it.
This illusive thing that lives and sighs
with my entire body.
Telling me over and over
What it is to love.