catch

May 8, 2014 § Leave a comment

it was never all at once
it was better that way
like the paper plane
you floated toward me
veering east, then west
and eventually landing
in my outstretched hands

Fishing For Phrase

March 17, 2014 § 3 Comments

How deep is the sea
of poetic cliches,
where similes swim
and metaphors make
mindful waves
in the salted water.
A pool as vast as time.
An ocean of words
to pick and choose.
Yet the art of the task
is to skim across the waters,
avoid the leaping temptations
of predictability,
and instead,
reach into the sky
and pull from above
a comparison as authentic
as the first sunrise
that showed its face
and stained
the earth’s skin red.

Liberation

March 9, 2014 § Leave a comment

I have a story that’s like fire
in my mind. A tale I wove
from thoughts and thread
into a delicate cloth
both beautiful, but imperfect
it smolders still
draped over my eyes
clouding sight but brightening
my way. If only I could peel it back,
throw it above my head
and watch it spin through the air.
Perhaps you could catch a glimpse
of its freedom, and throw your
cloak into the wind, just the same.
Or perhaps you would look above
and simply feel its warmth
fall onto your shoulders.

My Paper

March 8, 2014 § Leave a comment

A white sea, blank
an open ocean, filled
of possibility
crisp corners, edges
sharp, surface smooth
with prospects
of magnificence
yearning to be
filled with color
a canvas of
opportunity beneath
a single pen
waiting in apprehension
for what it will become

Notebook

February 22, 2014 § Leave a comment

I had this old notebook when I was young
with pages and pages of tales I’d spun.
I wrote endless stories and once upon a times,
with mystical characters made up in my mind.
I found that old notebook in my closet one day
and thumbed through the pages of my fiction bouquet.
It revealed past wishes and childhood dreams,
but every story contained one consistent theme.
While their plots all evolved in different times and worlds,
something happened just when the stories began to unfurl.
A sentence, a period, and then nothing more,
my narrative would end, not a summation to implore.
The pattern existed in each and every tale,
as if I searched for inspiration, but to no avail.
But perhaps my endless stories spoke a message of hope
that the end of one’s journey can always change scope,
and that life is astounding because no one truly knows
what wondrous endings our stories may bestow.
They lay ready and waiting, just out of our sight,
they are free and they’re ours, should we dare to write.

twelve o’clock

February 22, 2014 § Leave a comment

the day leaves softly
closed eyes and an open mind
drifting to tomorrow

The Tranquility of Passion

February 21, 2014 § Leave a comment

the tranquility of inaction
will never surpass
the tranquility of passion

for to haphazardly
create your path
and exalt in wonder
and awe of life itself,
is a task of which
one will never tire

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