Sunday, December 21, 2014


Hold on to the unremembering,
when today slips away like the sea
and yesterday is but a mist in the air
suspended between memory
and nostalgia, between love
and catching the scent
of something not reciprocated
that cannot be outrun, cannot be
ignored like the splashing
of ocean waves that are not mine to give
and were never yours to take.

Hold on to the unremembering,
a fading gray of being alive...
alive, but lifeless on the edge
of lingering remorse and wanton
experience, to rather have known
love and suffered from it, than
to never have known you at all.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

White Horizon

The white horizon weighs heavy
upon the nostalgia of falling snow
each snowflake a memory
stacked upon each other -
the first time we kissed;
the time you left a love
note on my windshield;
the children of your loins;
the years laying beside you;
laughing together;
watching each other
age with grace -
until I bend to each one
where there's much to remember
but nothing to declare, silence
not breaking the beauty
of a lifetime with you

Stillborn Voice

My voice is not
in the womb
of my distress
where the darkness
its venomous tears
and poisons
the well
of my soul.
My voice
is not stillborn
in the scrutiny
of your judgment
where you
doubt me
with your eyes
even as your words
are like honeysuckle
to moths
in the evenings. My
voice is not stillborn
when caught
in my throat
where a whisper
says more than
a roar,
and my words
are tattooed
in your heart.

Saturday, November 29, 2014

What If I Can

I am not afraid
of the things I cannot do;
I am afraid
of that which I can;
divinity etched amazingly
where God dwells
hidden in my DNA;

the sentient knowledge
that passion burns
in my soul,
but evaporates
at the crushing realities
of my calling;

that I can give more
than I should, immersed
under the waters
of perfection
while still breathing
under the pressure
of the expected
while neglecting
what I hold most dear,

my children, tendrils
of devotion falling around
my shoulders
as I cast them aside
with a flick of my wrist;

and I can be better,
            more dedicated,
but I become
like dandelion florets
cast against the wind,
scattering parts of me
on the horizon
of my potential.

Snowflakes Melting in My Hand

Written for Maria Pearce

They are fast approaching,
the holidays, like three horsemen
galloping through the rest
of the year, dragging
my heart through the weeks,
the first holidays without you,
and it feels like the coming
of winter without snow,
or waiting for sunrise
in the midst of fog, and
I am torn between missing you
and crossing that threshold
into unchartered days,
holding on to loved ones
like snowflakes melting in my hand,
cherishing them as they, too,
face their own inner turmoil
of not having you dine at our table.
The thoughts that come with an exhale
now carry with them the everyday
of not having you, especially poignant
this time of year when festivities
are mingled with nostalgia
- my breath visible through the cold -
and I wonder once again
how I could survive you
through the rhythms of life,
the stroke of immeasurable depth.

My Poem

Keep this poem in your pocket,
crumpled up so that you can feel it,
the creases pricking at your fingers
as your hand dives in, searching
for something else, pulling it out
in surprise; you read it again
and are reminded that I wrote it
just for you, so you keep this poem
in your pocket with me in mind.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

To a Sperm that May Have Reached Its Egg

How unexpected,
the dawn breaking
after a long night
of partying, the way
the light penetrates
through thick curtains
and leaves behind
a trace, a sliver
of the new day, and even
as I pull the covers
over my head, the sun
makes its way
into my bedroom,
and I find you laying
there beside me.