I Idea of Love

Have you noticed when some float upward,
because someone has captured their imagination,
there are those who are happy for them,
and those filled with indignation?

They can swoon and sway,
be afflicted or be smitten,
but they cannot possibly feel love.
That song remains unwritten.

Or so they are told.

Love in all it's weight,
no matter how long you wait
is always an idea.

It may start as a flutter
then a flicker,
then an all consuming flame.

Or it may begin the other way
Intense and surreal, 
with faults, and lies, and blame.

It might always be innocent.
Respectful, 
stoic and light.

Or it may vary on conditions
different from dawn to noon,
and well past midnight.

There's a formula for romance 
known by poets, charlatans, marketers and mothers 
who have doctored it for thousands of years.

There's a dance between too much and too little
information, time, distance, scent and skin,
trust and yearning, comforts and fears. 

They can concoct a potion,
or influence a notion
but they cannot judge what is love.

Love is an idea
powerful and fierce,
and gentle and light.

It's not a burden
to carry
nor subject for debate.

It's not thrust upon,
nor is it destiny, 
or fate.

It waxes and wanes like the moon
flows shallow and deep like the river
blows strong as a hurricane or soft as a balmy breeze.

Logic tells us it's chemicals
all released in our head,
while emotion calls on differing pleads.

It could be triggered by a smile, a laugh, 
a gaze held a few seconds 
longer than expected.

Do you time your gazes?
Plan your laughs, adjust your smiles,
least they be detected?

Love can be sped up,
slowed down,
deferred or ignored.

It can be questioned and tested, 
determined to not to be deep enough
not true. Forged!

Love is personal.
Like belief and faith,
Many want to advertise and praise.

Love is an idea
a powerful one
that can consume the days.

It's strong enough 
to be questioned, doubted
or denied.

And can only be proven 
to exist deep behind 
the loved and lover's mind's eye.

Half the Bed Remains Unused

Still not used to shopping for one.
No more planning, no more menus,
just going when the belly begins to growl.

No more cottage cheese, or kale,
or apricot purée in the refrigerator.
They’ve been evicted.
Replaced with day old chicken 
and containers of meals too old to recognize.
The cabinets filled with Spaghetti Os 
and cereal galore.

It's not as though I cannot cook,
it used to be in my arsenal of charms.

There's no one left to impress. 

I don’t push a shopping cart anymore. 
I didn't think I'd miss that. 
A basket is enough for me, 
I scurry through the aisles, my time spent very quick. 
Unless I linger because of some scent, 
or boredom. 
Or, more likely lost. 
Where did they move the jams and jelly? 
I pace back-and-forth, 
all my efficiency evaporating next to the milk. 

I could enjoy it. 
I should enjoy it, I suppose. 
Linger up and down the rows, 
make small talk with the single women, 
tell a pithy joke near the peaches. 
But it seems fruitless. 

It’s all a chore I hasten to complete. 
And I race to where? 
The empty home and blank pages, 
screaming to be filled but ignored once more. 

I used to run to the coffee shops late in the night, 
to escape the sounds and sometimes fury. 
A habit not yet broken. 
Now, I go to escape the silence that is deafening, 
and search for happenstance or serendipity, 
random acts or a chance meeting. 

Planning luck is a fool's strategy. 

I can blast the music louder now, 
but the choice in songs are melancholy 
and volume mocks their intent.

I go through eggs faster, for some reason, 
so there's that. 
But the big vat of mayonnaise still lingers. 
And no man needs as many cotton balls. 
Finally threw away the random perfumes and soaps, 
and shower caps of hotels visited, 
bleak reminders of less bleak times. 

Half the bed remains unused.

The Silence Brings No Comfort

The silence brings no comfort
The nightfall no relief
The whirling fan blows hot air
for spite, and fuel for grief.

Was promised there'd be thunder
a storm to soak the air
It passed without a whimper
Left only droplets of dispair.

Past the days of longing
for skin to press against.
Logic and reason and knowing
all have been dispensed.

The vessel is now empty
there's nothing more to give.
Murky waters may hold something
but I'm without a sieve.

Used to step along the edge of the continent
and shout from the shore
Would battle imagined seamonsters
as if slaying them would bring a cure.

Lonely is the night
Silent are the days
Quiet in the mornings
Stumble, in a sleep deprived haze.

Deprived of touch
and passionate kissess,
of dreams to share and
silly wishes.

Echos of laughter
moans of delight
It's lonely in the silence
and hallow of the night.

Cafe Kissess

Perched on a stool in a darkened cafe
Leaning close into each other
Searching for the words to say.

Words elude them
Overrated nouns
Inadequate adjectives
Paragraphs written with only eyes

Lips crease upward
Then part for a kiss
Smiles and sighs
For the things that were missed.

Fingers interlock
With a trusting grip
Music drips
from speakers above.
A crooner crooning his thoughts
On love.

Be it imagined
Or remembered
Forgotten or lost
It still brings a swooning
No matter the cost.

Caffeinated Romance: lyrics and poems for everyday people who fall in and out of love

Just in time for Valentine's Day!

Click here for your Kindle

Trouble with Women

Having some fun. I've been publishing about one short story per week. That schedule keeps me writing, keeps me practicing, and keeps me adding new titles into the marketplace for people to read. Trouble with Women is my first anthology of five of my short stories. You can find most on my work on Amazon, Barnes and Noble or iTunes.

they and me can again be We

They can gawk.

They can mock.

They can swear,

and blame,

and fail to understand.

They can fear.

They can demonize.

They can protect what they know.

They can try to keep their status quo, 

with ignorance or denial.

They can rouse their forces,

weaponized beyond proportion.

They can spray the eyes or pull the hair 

of mothers or daughters or elders,

who will no longer sit.

They can crack the heads of unarmed soldiers 

who, for a decade risked their lives in far-off lands 

to preserve the promise of days like these.

They can speak from two sides, 

pretending they don’t betray the constitution,

or morality, or commonsense.

They can tear down tents, disperse crowds 

and destroy property of a free people.

They can invoke the cry of safety

to trump any law.

They can herd the young and old like cattle,

or throw men over barricades, 

like worn-out mattresses. 

They can disinfect parks sullied by occupation,

but not the hearts of an educated nation. 

They can say they'll fix the wrongs.

They can bargain for more time,

in hopes bygones will be forgot.

They will not.

They can try to silence what's already been heard.

They can try to obfuscate what's already been seen.

They can try to blame the odor on others, 

like children who hide the stink.

They can try to ignore the taste of justice 

that brews in cafés and cafeterias and classrooms 

and the places where debate is still safe and welcome.

They can feel satisfied when streets are cleared 

and they think things return to normal.

They can throw money at any problem,

because it is easier to find than good judgement. 

They could find a cure in the sea of faces,

that hold the common man, woman and child,

doing uncommon things for the good of each other.

Then they, and me,

can again, be we.

And we, can overcome anything.

Rest, Restless Mind

Rest, restless mind.
fear not what you uncover
while under covers 
that do not belong to you.


Dream on 
of laughter and giggles
and first meetings, 
and kisses.


They needn't come true
they seldom do
that's why the poets get paid
in accolades and finger snaps
and go hungry
back into the night.


One bulb illuminates their room
like a beacon, not for ships
but for shifts in thinking.


Torn by dreams
planted by another
but nurtured by your fantasies.
And by questions left 
unanswered - avoided 
as if diseased.


It matters some
but not a lot
to turn the page once more.

Make of Them What You Wish

I've been watching the surf for many months

Trying to find comfort in the ocean breeze.

Comfort does not wash upon the shore. 

I've watched the gulls search for food 

And dolphins frolic between the swells. 

I still go hungry and lack the joy to play. 

I’ve listened to the roar and crash of waters beating against the rocks 

And lapping at the sands. 

It has not been a peaceful lullaby nor a rousing call to arms.

I have learned but one thing, this many months. 

No matter the weather, the season, the time of day or night,

The illumination of stars and moon or a sultry sun, it does not care. 

The waves keep on coming. 

Make of them what you wish. 

Damn you Jimmy Taylor

James Taylor playing on the radio. 

Makes you think of the one you never had. 
And how she got away. 


Never held her hand. 
Or heard her sing the song she promised 
Would haunt you in your sleep. 


Now it haunts you 
Never hearing it 
As you lay fast awake. 


She awakes in a distant morning 
Surrounded by azul waters 
And the tan arms of the man who loves her 
Probably more than you. 


Damn you Jimmy Taylor 
And your guitar strings 
That pull apart the heart.

Candles on A Beach

A line of candles smolder 

on a lonely beach.  

Waves lap closer, 

but they’re just out of reach.

Rocks from the jetty

cast long shadows 

thanks to the white light 

of the full moon.

Fishing boats dot the horizon,

like symmetrical stars 

rising in the night. 

No music, 

save the rumbling surf.

So many bright lights in this darkness 

each illuminates for another. 

As it should be. 

Always. But Sometimes, Never.

Always is forever, 
and most things seldom are. 

Never is not ever, 
and that goes a bit too far.

Sometimes rests between the two, 
with honesty and moderation. 

But sometimes lacks the punch for you, 
and reeks of hesitation.

Friday Distraction

She pulls you toward her,

Like north to south.

She speaks with her eyes,

And blots her mouth.

She clears her throat

In a subtle way

As the waiter takes

The plates away.

You suggest dessert

Or just peruse the list.

Making mental note of the time,

And the several trains you’ve missed.

She beams at the choices

Of chocolates and liqueur,

Of cakes and cobblers 

And other treats that blur.

She is mesmerizing,

Alluring, a pleasant distraction.

Then she startles you 

With her sudden reaction.

“None for me.

Too rich, too sweet, too soon.”

You nod your clouded head,

Still floating like a ballon.

A peck goodnight

Across the cheek.

Your legs still tremble

As you try to speak.

She hushes you, 

Gives a wave, 

And departs across the street.

Red heat flushes through, 

But you did not cave,

And kept it all discrete.

Poetry Is His Lover Now

He courts an absent muse.

His words made to compel

induce, seduce

her from the shadows.

Summer evening breezes

blow through open windows

like a whispering paramour.

Reminiscent of gentle kisses,

letters form across the screen

thanks to the subtle stokes

applied to each button

by passionate fingertips.

The right combination of keys

have the power to unlock mysteries

and desires and fears,

laughter and tears.

The varying cadence unfolds.

A quickening pace

followed

by lingering glances,

over words

that caresses themselves

into sultry sentences.

Poetry is his lover now.

Awkward and stilted with the newness

lovely and warm with experience

Intimate thoughts shared

before he drifts to blissful slumber.

Planning for the Morrow

Not peaceful

But calm

Not content

But no alarms.

Quiet night

Only hums

Wide awake

Twiddling thumbs.

Preparing for

Unwelcome surprise

Assuming more

Tear-filled eyes.

Fight the urge

to fight some more

Take the hit’s

Just ignore.

In due time

Things may change

Crossed lines

Means lives rearranged.

Might just fret

Despite the clues

Ego’s ready

For another bruise.

Or there may be

Another way.

Gentler words

For that, we pray.

Midnight Call

A string of tea lights line the mantel

Flames dance and lick the air

Their shadows weave and waver along the wall.

She cups her hand behind each candle

Like a lover around the nape, before a kiss

One by one she blows, extinguishing them all.

One light remains, a bluish glow

Illuminating a corner of the room

Her computer idle, waiting one half hour past his midnight call.

She dumps her tea, it too grew cold

A yawn, a sigh, but no tear and she powers down for bed

Forgoes the nightly rituals, and up the stairs she crawls

To slumber now and hope of dreams of the distant man who wanders

in and out of her mind and heart, with inconsistent words he sometimes squanders.

Hay Moon

Introspection, a specialty of those who try to figure it out

from the comfort of their chair.

Extrospection, for those who prefer to learn

while wind whips through their hair.

Still, there’s beauty in knowing

no matter where one sits on this sphere,

That the other one can bask in the full moon’s light

and for a moment, once again feel near.

The sun and moon,

the planets and stars,

all cut through the sky

but leave no scars.

Inky black waves lap at the shore

ebbing and flowing like a writer’s pen

drifting from margin to margin,

again and again.

A muse, restless within you.

A man, restless without you.

A night, glowing in pale blue.

Problems, you easily sail through.

Inside or out

Head or heart

Doesn’t matter the role

Just play your part.

Used To

Used to hold your hand every time we walked.

Now no rings grace your fingers.

Used to hug as a greeting.

Now a grunt may count, as long as it lingers.

Used to smile,

Because you made it come so easy.

It’s been a while

Since I’ve felt love-sick queasy.

Used to have a partner who

Made me feel everything would work out all right.

Used to have a body to hold

As I laid in bed at night.

Used to cry

With belly laugh induced tears of joy.

Never used to feel tossed around

Like a ragged, slobbered on dog’s used toy.

Once upon at time I thought

There was nothing we couldn’t get through.

Never once thought

I’d be standing here alone, trying to figure out what to do.

The First Embrace

Who are they trying to fool?
These rookies know nothing of love.

They share coffee and misery
Shoptalk of the things they hate
The people, the politics
The stress, the strain
How things will never be the same.

She peppers her queries
Like a tentative cook
“Who are you seeing?”
“Why or why not?”
He oblivious.
He was never taught
The subtleties of a prowling woman.

Both worry about money
And where it will come from next.
How they don’t get enough
And too much goes to their ex.

They are beleaguered and torn apart
The corporate world they fight in
No doubt they are both smart,
Except for matters of the heart.

Sometimes their voices grow softer
As if to flirt with the idea of something more.
Clear to those who look on
That he’s the one she adores.

He knows none of this.
Focused on his task
Complaining, moaning
He's a pain in the ass.

Eventually they step outside the cafe
Into the darkness illuminated by the moon
And framed by a wall of glass.

They are ready to part
To finish the night and prepare for another day
But she finds words
That compel him to stay

And then they embrace,
Like colleagues who’ve been through hell
And lived to share their tales.
But it lingers
Longer.
She does not release
The embrace
Makes his insistent talking cease.

He stumbles backward,
Stammers and smiles.
She lets him go
The way a fisherman makes good sport.
She turns to her car and says goodnight

He may be hooked,
Maybe shook,
But he will not sleep well tonight.
And we, us seasoned romantics
Alone in the cafe with our pens and words
And empty cups long grown cold
Witnessed it and know
Whatever it will become
Would never have begun
Without her.