I write the poetry I cannot live

I write the poetry I cannot live. I write about love but I don’t have any. I write about freedom but I am caged. I write about happiness; it has escaped me. With my pen atop pristine white pages the ink that is transferred as markings on the paper transforms into beauty, love and light,…

There Was a Time

There was a time when the air was winged with desire and the soil was seeded with love and the water was infused with passion. In my eyes the seasons changed turning from emerald to copper to gray. In my heart the seasons drained away, taking with their running waters, it’s love. The great gray…

The Last of the Romantics

I am the last of the romantics, the last of the few people who used to whisper to the flowers the names of the ones we love for the blooms to pronounce to fall back to the soil when they wilt. I am the last of the sect that drew poetry in the night’s cold…

Art In Words

I would like to paint masterpieces with my words. Fill the air with the sounds of amber, scarlet and indigo, create brush strokes with the flow of my sentences. Paint pictures of blossoming flowers, of the benevolent sun dancing in the vast sky. Tell tales of the willing trees being tousled by the powerful wind….