Free Verse, Poem, Poet, Poetry

Dreaming

If I die
I will travel
to you by
candlelight
in the dim
edges of
the fire’s
light
and dance
for you
til you
think of me
smile, close your
eyes and
fall back
to sleep.
 
I’ll stay with
you through
the failing
night and fight
off rays of
Apollo’s
morning light
and with my
final act timed
just right, I’ll
breathe the
dancing fire
back to life
and kiss your
tired head

goodnight.

Darlin’
I will travel to you by
candlelight

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Free Verse, Poem, Poet, Poetry

A Writer’s Bed and Pen

None of the great poets
fucked the same.

Cummings is smiling
holding dancing
floating
slowly painting her
image across his
mind.

Bukowski is standing
at the foot of the bed
while stroking cursing
groping
pouring whiskey and
pulling at her
thighs.

Kahlil is sweetly
whispering beauty
knowing
boasting his love
to the surrounding trees
under the midnight
skies.

O’hara is brightly
sloping undergoing
the rhythm of a
classical masterpiece
across his lover’s
shoulder during a
New York City
sunrise.

Neruda is breaking
laughing crashing
flowing
in and out like
the tides of
his precious
seaside.

Sex and poetry
go hand in hand,
the bed and the pen,
both covering nights
with charm and
surprise.

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Free Verse, Poem, Poet, Poetry

Flower Beds

our minds, from the moment we met,
seem to have intertwined like vines
for embrace as we further climb.
and in time, I have come to believe
that our creator conceived you of me
taking my own rib, you’re forever my eve.
 
flourishing, I watch as your life expands
like roots thirsting and searching for land
as if the earth holds love like hands.
our hearts beat each others pain
like the surface of mother earth
rhythmically counting every drop of rain.
 
I dream we’ll grow wild like the forest,
bare foot and waiting to dance in the rain.
we’ll sit and stare off into space
as if the earth is our galaxy’s windowpane.
 
and when I die, I’ll be buried without a coffin
so my skin can begin to burst from within
to create for you a bed of flowers
and on bright days with a cool breeze
you can lay out above me so that I, through the soil,
might feel your heartbeat.
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Free Verse, Poem, Poet, Poetry

Xanadu

Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.


There exist this view from a hill,
and each night the sun sets
the horizon with the most
breath-taking colors.
The wild animals scurry
in the field, making their homes
in this heavenly evening.

When the stars begin
to rise, there isn’t a dark
spot in the sky.
The wind picks up a melody
through the trees and
sings a new life.

I vision our house there
on that hill, and I imagine
the sun and the moon
working tirelessly for
years creating
this hidden Eden.

A small attempt, a life in heaven
waiting upon that hill
for earth to swallow;
embracing this new beginning
to absolve all sorrow.

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Free Verse, Poem, Poet, Poetry

Descartes’ Meditations

We were created in a dream of a wonderful being.

In a world where one is perfect,
there is no place for change.
for a change in any way
would be one for the worse.
In a place where one cannot change
all one can do is dream of a
world full of little beings
with imperfections
with death
with love
We live in a vessel of perception;
tasting the plants, touching friends,
seeing proof of the wind, and
rationalizing our sin.
In a world forever changing,
we strive for something supreme,
pure and perfect, something complete.
creating a world in our sleep,
dreaming of a wonderful being
with perfections
with eternity
with love
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Free Verse, Poem, Poet, Poetry

∞ Discovery Through Creativity, Creativity Through Discovery ∞

She looks at me
with a slight curiosity.
I watch her lips dance
in coordination with her hands
as she explains the
importance of creativity.
Truth be told,
I’d let her paint me
(oh, I don’t wish
for her to canvas
my resemblance)
No.
but for her to blend,
mix, use, melt,
every color
ever felt.
for her to create
tint, hue, shade,
a work of light
never before made.
for her to paint my flesh
with her heavenly hands
as her brush.
for her to give new breath
to an earthly body
with time’s touch.
for her to give form
to her vision
of me.
Creativity.
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Free Verse, Poem, Poet, Poetry

On The Sad Height

I remember my childhood,
late nights with my father
talking for hours;
more him,
than me.
I miss those nights,
spending time like
its your last two
dimes.
The urgency of the morals
told in a confession of
one man’s life, intent
to create a man of a
son.
The details always blur.
As if it matters anyway,
the story of a young man
is always the
Wanderer.
The last we spoke
it was of your
peace in life
as we drank wine
at the tops of trees,
lighting the stars
at night.
I recall the strangest thing.
as I was doing my wandering
just after the sun went down
I completely stopped, unaware
of the purpose for such a feeling;
an uneasy glow from my soul.
The night turned to a
new dark I’d never seen.
I imagine my subconscious
beaming like a dream;
my heart falling asleep.
a feeling so pure
that it takes years
to feel anything
again.
My passion has suffered,
and my apologies are genuine
Father, what is a man
once his wandering has
reached its end?
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Free Verse, Poem, Poet, Poetry

Wildfire

We ate them on your birthday
the bayou bounced to a new song
the green bleeding from the branch
intruding through an open window
I laid on my back and wrote
you painted furiously
neither of us spoke
I remember watching you glow
the tiny room breaks away
wall by wall (cue the dark)
the stars fall in, the floor drops out
the warmth of creation burning passions
I’m sitting fireside while the Wild is
laughing.

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