Category Archives: Poetry 2010-2020

My Painting is A Good Bye

I can’t paint, my words,
like a brush, depict
how I see you.

Your eyes, almond shape,
glare at me as I walk by,
content with letting me leave.

Those soft lips, usually turned
up, slope down, “see you
later” pushes it’s way out.

That face, a window,
your thoughts, clear in view
say, “never again.”

My last strokes, your shoulders
slouched, hands out of view,
body leaning away from the door.

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It is tough saying good-bye, even to someone who did you wrong. Written in 2011.

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.

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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.

Docked

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.

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

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.

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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.

The Fire of Life

In life, we create the fire of thought. Sparks from neurons
create ideas, leading to the flames – our questions – how and why.
The answers inspire art, fun, war, and misery; all resources
to pleasure.

In death, we create the fire of life. Our bodies deposited deep
in the ground or spread across the surface, food for the bugs
and plants that rise up, help sustain existence. We are born from fires
below the earth.


A poem I have worked on the last couple of years, 2015, I’ll probably continue to edit along the way.

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
together.

 

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Written in 2011.