More: My Fatal Disease [Poem]

People look at my cold sore

like I have a fatal disease.

Don’t they know I was at war,

trying to get some z’s?

Saturdays should whisper

when they step into the room,

after a night of poetic wonder

that always ends too soon.

But, no, sleep lost his grip

and demanded that I wake.

He punched me in the lip,

that nasty, little rake!

People shouldn’t judge

what they can’t understand.

As for me, I hold no grudge—

it’s a cold sore I didn’t plan.

More: Always Listen [Poem]

There is something
about the hour of birds
that gladdens the heart
more than words.

They eat what they need,
know right and wrong;
they love and they bleed,
but Always have a song.

So, what of all this?
Listen to what is true:
without an hour of birds,
what would humans do?

More: Single [Poem]

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psychoanalysis

buzzes

at a quarter

past four

while

tiny gossip

spreads like

butter

on toasted

whole grain

wheat.

Humor

rises in her eyes

of hazel fire.

"Single” goes to,

“It’s complicated.”

Not really.

She’s still

“Single.”

I “like” it anyway.

More: I Won't Fall [Poem]

Sometimes, I wonder about

“Love” and those led astray

as the whirlwind of doubt

darkens in me all that is gay.

~

Once upon a time, you see,

“Love” sat amid these trees

to watch in united jubilee

a boy, a girl, and a breeze.

Ah, but nothing is more profound

in the palsy passing of time

than when “Love” runs aground

and breaks a golden chime.

Was “Love” meant to sit there,

beneath blueberry skies?

Why did vows crumble to despair

and drown with goodbyes?

~

Well, at least they could sigh,

and gave romance their all—

for me, I shall always deny

“Love”, who knows I won't fall. 

More: Sweat and Scratches [Poem]

I

Ceramic tiles find me
on hands and knees,
scrubbing before coffee
and consuming calories.

II

Arms covered in scratches,
brow drenched in sweat,
spending the weekend
on chores not over yet.

III

Diet Dr. Pepper is good
when it's nice and cold.
How can the neighborhood 
of noon be so boring and old?

IV

When the day closes,
both cat and human sleep.
Hard work in large doses?
No need to count sheep.

More: Lonely Souls [Poem]

The world is filled with lonely souls

and you call out to mine

in a way only philosophers and poets

could truly ever define

but these shadows fall like demons

around my guarded heart

so you may never get in,

or know where to start

and as sure as God whispers

that He has made you for me

I sense, in the back of my mind,

the doubt—fear—uncertainty

that rises like a tidal wave

and washes away the good.

The world is filled with lonely souls—

I would love you if I could.

More: Little cat [Poem]

“Little cat”

Little cat

with amber eyes,

why do you keep me up

most nights,

as if to say

my job isn’t done,

that the moon is full,

and the stars are deftly hung

in a sky of sapphire wool?

What care I, you crazy fool?

Artemis of the hunt and moon

beckons you to stealthily follow

across the fields of emerald silk

to a dark and barren hollow,

but you would be lost

and miss your bowl

filled with 9 Lives

at least, I think so.

You’d be missed if you go.

Little cat

with marmalade coat,

let’s both sail away

on dreamland’s boat.