strawberry kiss

The memory is a strawberry Fresh on the vine With a twisting pluck- It is mine A red gem gleaming in the sun Tart freshness and sugar sweet There’s a hint of the earth in it A safe dirt kind of taste The way a garden smells after rain And the earth is in me…

Speckled (a micropoem)

Eggshell. Tread lightly. My insides have all run out But aren’t I still warm to the touch? Enjoy my sanity with your breakfast.

White Picket Fence (guest feature – poem)

In resonance to my frustration with the Lyft driver’s attitude yesterday, one of my dearest loves and relatively new writer gave me permission to share his own distaste with such attitudes and lifestyles, expressed here through poesy. You worked hard for that status, didn’t you… You worked hard to be in that tax bracket.You worked…

Self-Musing 4 (poesy)

Strong Applied liberally to others But like the root that dies To give sustenance My tongue fell out of my mouth Upon looking in the mirror. You don’t know of the grace with which I’ve maneuvered through the darkest paths to no fault of anyone but the trumpet who so loved its very own existence,…

Heaven’s mess

(A throwback)   The place I heard heaven’s message was where I stood and could see no distinction between the parts of you and the parts of me, mixed up in beautiful chaos, and realized experiencing the universe was what we called “love.” It has been ever so simple since.

The foil crown and cardboard throne (a poem)

I live in DC. When I first moved here, I took a bus every morning that rode me past the White House, down the mall, and across the river, all typically before the sun painted these in the pleasant hues that inspire patriotism for buildings and monuments constructed in architecture paying homage to a fallen…

For my muse (a micropoem)

Just renewed my domain. Three year anniversary, after a dark, nameless slump of antagonostic blank pages. The brief turned into a chapter into an epic Carolyn Forche style. 3 years ago My pen alive again So inspired I kissed you And every time my lips parted Words tumbled secrets Buried into your beard The greatest…

The last we spoke (a micropoem)

Because that’s what hometowns make: High school “remember the time..?”s And coffins for the people who die young, Those left and waiting recording the absentees in sorry but frank conversation over coffee Like a reunion roll call.