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.

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.

Quick Glances

An image of you;
You and I.
Not this life, not this time.
Your beauty diffuses into a room,
doses of deadly gasses.
A few quick glances,
never a look again.

Another poem from when I was 16.

Portrait of an American Poet

Ode to: Jim Morrison

Portrait of a poet:
Maybe the Lizard King,
maybe black leather dressed demon.
He self implies that he has the “soul of a clown,”
who blows it at the “most important moments.”

Drugs, liquor, women, art:
the ingredients of a male artist.
Mixed with talent and a vision
he found fame’s way,
lost the sunlight of the day.
Art made of pain,
an addiction
the media driving him insane.
up rise — down fall,
dead at 27.
Art lives on.

His art lives on.


I wrote this sometime in late 1995, early 1996. Jim Morrison inspired me to write poetry and start delving into art. At that age, he helped me deal with my mental health issues I didn’t know I had yet. Loved The Doors as well. Not my favorite band now but will always hold that place in my heart.

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.

Phone Call

A broken, bloodied body,
delivered in the form of a phone call. Not
surprised, I ask about your current condition.
The reply, you are hung over in the hospital,
feet up, head aching, lungs too crushed to spew
venom’s that poisoned your gut. I wondered
when I would receive this spoken telegram of your mistakes.

This time, your actions were too inebriated to dodge
the bull of disaster, leaving you gored and lying
face down in a ditch; the ambulance arrived
before you became another matador statistic.
Two minutes after I hear you are stable, I bow
over my bed, hands linked, begging for,
more chances to see you.



Written in 2004 for a family member.