Category Archives: love

I Like You

I like you…but I don’t know
how to show you. I once shared
those feelings but they came out
unconfident. I like you.

I like the way you smile, it’s easy
and toned back, more of a smirk but
not like a jerk, more of a commentary
on your thoughts and calmness.

I like our interaction. It is simple,
we seem to agree on a lot. In all
of our interactions, about our class,
we accomplished and overcame obstacles.

I would like to get to know you
better. I think we could be
a great team and have fun, make
the casual observer jealous of our connection.

Maybe you know and don’t like me
the same way. I should understand
humans are attracted to different characters
of people. I might not be your type.

I like you. I am an adult male,
writing poetry like a teenager cause
I don’t know how to get
you to like me.

I wrote this for someone in one of my graduate classes, it’s just a passing fancy of a poem. Sometimes I write to get a feeling out of my system. 2012.



Eyes locked through a crowd,
chains drawing us closer,
an ocean of people pushing,
our stare pulls us in deep.
Slow momentum opposing,
ineffective down currents,
inching together, hands raise,
fingers spread, then clasp.
Two ships docked as one.

A silly, cheesy little piece I just wrote that I may or may not work on later. 2017.

Care About More Than You

As the rain gently creeps down the window,
it becomes a metaphor of nature crying.
Can you help,
or do you ignore?
My friends, the birds, are lost,
the poor conditions made it difficult to soar.

Did you notice the terror in the trees
when you cut them down?
Maybe you didn’t care
that you cause so much fear.

If you would only take more than a glance,
you would see a refreshing hope,
but you never give us a chance
to use the environment as a means to cope.
Do you care about anyone but yourselves?
You’re not the only one to live.
You never answered our call.
Why? We never wanted you to give.

Look harder,
you could see a good glory.
It’s obvious you care about one thing:
your own story.


I wrote this in the mid 90’s. I can’t explain the way Henry David Thoreau’s writings expanded my mind, my thoughts. I read a soft cover collection of his works until it literally fell apart. I guess it reflects in the content.

Our First Night

That night I held you in my arms, we looked
out the window and watched boats in the distance
as well as lights from other hotels and in the park
below us. We talked about our life, our child-
hoods, about our views on life. You told me about

reindeer food and I rambled on about something. I recall
sitting on that couch, occasionally glancing away from
outside spectacles to look at your crimson hair, your deep
green windows of eyes, displaying your excitement and those red
dots freckled on your cheeks, waiting for my lips to connect

each one. I would eventually kiss your tattoos,
but in that moment, I wanted to wrap you up
like a gift, hands folded over you like a big bow,
appreciating time we had with each other knowing
it was our present.

I wrote this in late 2012, a poem for someone I once loved. I have many of these to post, on several degrees of love and lust, found and lost.

The Rose and the Dandelion

A single red rose,
with soft petals, smooth to touch,
grows in the grass.

The blooming flower,
intoxicating to inhale, wafts sweet scents
on a summer breeze.

The green stem
proudly stands upright, displaying
a crimson glow.


A golden dandelion, has curled
a path, wrapped around the green stem,
up to be near the rose. Long golden

limbs held firmly, yellow and red
pressed together, to the exuberant
petals of the blooming Dame De Coeur.


I wanted to remove
the intrusive dandelion
from the glowing rose
but could not do so
without disturbing
the integrity of the rose.
I stood up, leaving
two flowers
delicately intertwined.


I have been working on this one since 2012. I’m on a fifth edit, still not completely what I’m shooting for but close.

Unfinished Poem

I am the poet, writing words that spill
from my brain like a vial of ink
helplessly knocked over, dripping/
blotting onto a white sheet of paper
in sections. Each verse forming a metaphor,
simile or description about my thoughts and
feelings. I want to control the flow of my
consciousness but ideas and emotion
grip me tightly and sway the tide of rhythm.
I am the poet.

You are my muse, with your sunshine
smile that could straighten light in a black
hole and eyes that vaguely hide the fiery
spark of creation. Every time we talk
or I am in your company, your ideas, expressive
nature, vocabulary, and charming reactions
build the force inside me that attaches wires
to my creative instincts and pulls the strings
like a cable controller in a puppet show.
I am the poet and you are my muse.

You stir me to create a master piece, a verbal
painting that is equal to the Elizabeth I, Ermine
portrait. Each stanza, each line draws me
closer to completing my compelled
goal, yet, every attempt falls a stroke
or brush short. There is something that I miss,
a reason that my work can not be completed.
Perhaps, no poem I write about you can end
well, until it concludes with us



Written in 2011.


T0: N.H.


I stood in green grass
under a backyard clothesline,
my nose smelling blueberry
muffins wafting from an open
window, my eyes scanning, starting
with the white, rusting shed, then your legs,
finishing at the ripe garden.


In your tar-affected voice,
you taught me the rules of baseball;
do not swing the plastic bat at a first
pitch, keep an eye on the hole filled
ball, be aware of the actions of other
base runners, and regardless of outcome,
make sure to respect every player.


I gripped my bat, wise of where
to hit the mint-tinted wiffle ball.
You wound up, prepared to pitch,
ready to do what you never could
with my father and his brother.
The pitch came off of your fingers and I
cracked it over the gray back fence.



Wrote this back in my undergrad, 2003, read it at my grandmothers memorial service. It’s a close one to my heart.