i painted you away
with heavy, black brush strokes
slow, pastel dabs

i wrote you away
using quiet steady pens
blatant, loud clacks of keystrokes 

i sipped you away,
gulped you down

i giggled you away,
cried you 'til sleep

i slept you away,
awoke to your absence

you were a slow, arduous trek
up this painful mountain
with stunning views
crisp, heavy breaths

perhaps my descent
will be cooler,
a striking gait,
with a warm ocean
to greet me at the bottom,
the waves' steady passion
will comfort my realization
that  you   were   never  


fall failures?

this morning i was thrilled to hear the birds 
arguin', flirtin', singin' amongst the porch vines
i was happy to have my clavicle back
and just enough french vanilla was left
for a perfect cup of coffee
out here in the swing

all this exaltation
over nothin' really
does all this deeming it so grand
mean i have lived too much?
that i have not lived enough?

the only thing that frustrates me
is the swing won't creak
you are not here
she is intimidated by the loud blue jay
and you.........by what?


adaptation to characterization

in all those previous acts
i quietly uttered the "no" lines,
with sheepish "yes" soliloquies

you dramatically recited
all those "yes" scenes
with silent, hamartia laden "no"

perhaps, the success of this drama
would be the decisive act
 of which roles to reverse,
seeking a grand finale of 
romantic denouement?


bees what you is

no longer a stranger
you listened
to all those crazy
love words

like a bee
you filled hundreds of combs
with sticky, sweet honey

though your hive 
was a long flight 
from here


4 a.m.

i've tree filled thoughts,
at this frail hour
wondering how......

through all those freezing winter nights
beneath the heat of scorching summer suns
below your deep, deep roots
absorb water from seemingly
desert dry places

causing beautiful leaves 
on broken limbs
that provide 
shade for weary travelers, 
nesting for the homeless wren,
fruit for a hungry soul

beloved tree
blooming in a silent soul
how i wish
that i could be more like


closure or hope?

all those things 
you say through prayers -
i've said a thousand times
i know god is tired

whether it be 
nakedness -
there are just some things
that cannot be said
with those 
twenty-six letters
we call
"the alphabet"


of illness and circumstances

the painter 
does not know
the invisible source
of his work

the interpreter 
ignores the meaning
 of the painting

the source
is not unconscious
at all

inspiration deserves
i am giving it

life shows there is a vision
an ideal that 
stays vague
if not altogether