Poem to Eros, 23

There’s a rhythm that

naturally clicks into place

When you’re near, my dear

as if we’ve always been

The waves part and

my eyes are drawn to you

No one else can cause such trouble

like the way you do

Under your gaze I feel like

a million brilliant stars

Dressed in satin, trimmed with lace,

dancing as though in a daze 


Image credit: Eidy Bambang-Sunaryo on Unsplash


Poems from an Insomniac

~ Ca. 2011-2012, ed. 2019 ~


Tick tocks echoing

all around,

heart beats booming

through flimsy cotton.

A hand at my breast

but they would not still,

vibrations breaking free.

Harsh and heavy breaths

swallowed by the darkness.

Everything seems dead–

the night is silent.


Barely there

I used to sleep all right at night. No pixie dust was needed to shut my eyes and fly me off to dreamland. But these nights that pass by, I linger on the edge of peaceful slumber and restless wandering; wanting so much to fall and never remember a thing until my skin is drenched in daylight again and familiar morning rhythms stir my senses.


Sleeping to dream

Somewhere between the whirring din of the fan and the soft, melodious rustling of chimes by my window is a suspended dream. There was freedom in your arms and love in tingling waves as skin grazes skin.

I wake up to faded walls of familiarity.


No Regrets

Sometimes I want to

scrub myself raw

of your indelible ink,

and flush the brushes of our chemistry;

Bury my flame in sepia pages

still burning brightly

for anyone

but me


In 2046

The things we don’t say, I’m so full of them. I have to empty my cup and start all over again. Or whisper them all into a hollow, and cover it with earth. Anything, anything, just to be light again.



Your love, I wear it well. Wrapped around a pink stone that sits on my bosom, beating in unison with my heart.

Your dreams, I keep them well. Stacked neatly on a shelf, easy to reach like my favorite books.

Love Comes Softly

 I don’t happen to be in the business of 

falling in love with the changing of the seasons 

Love came softly for me, and so slowly 

I woke up one day and found Love outside a chapel, 

in a moment that brought me to my knees 

Love was the quiet type and didn’t talk much 

But Love was true to the letter, always 

Love was kind and selfless when hope was wearing thin 

Love appreciated every little thing I did 

Love didn’t answer right away, but sent me messages when I least expected it 

Love was shy when I was fierce 

Love was aloof when I was an open book 

Love doubted when I believed 

But when we looked into each other’s eyes all we saw was Truth and Beauty 

And even though Love didn’t stay and didn’t answer one day, 

Love has never left my heart since 

Love has opened my eyes and blasted my door wide to possibilities 

Love has planted seeds of hope

Love has inspired me to write poetry again 

Love has taught me to be patient and wait for the real thing 

Love has ushered me back into the arms of the Universe 

And though we’re not together, 

I still let Love go because that’s what you do

when Love means the world to you  


Photo by ORNELLA BINNI on Unsplash

Was it my words, so sweet and deliberate?

Was it the way I dress, all whimsy and feminine grace?

Was it the way I looked at you when you talked–intense and doe-eyed,

as if no one else mattered in the world?

How was I to know that you would block the freight train force of my love

And leave me alone along the tracks of a wild, strange place

To navigate on my own

Walk off the shock and disbelief on my face

Was it all a lie–one confusing puzzle of misread signs and over-analyzed lines?

I was never one to lie

My only fault being an open book for anyone to read

Then why do I feel as if the same freight train knocked me over

and left my heart on the tracks, bleeding?

Poetry is for you

Photo by Garidy Sanders on Unsplash

Poems are made for outsiders,

foreigners in their own skin

looking for a home

strangers from the outside

looking in.

Poems are for the heartbroken,

drunk on love

full of longing

the disappointed, those still

waiting for their time.

Poems are for dreamers,

digging for jewels within

travelers to their inner worlds,

chasers of the light

writing their way to clarity.

Some day

Photo by Matteo Bernardis on Unsplash

Some days I wish I could write the way I used to before

back when I wrote those poems of you,

back when I was full with longing and driven by need.

But I know I will write again someday

and not just about you

maybe it won’t be about you

I’ll write about red nail polish

and biting into apples ripe with truth and knowledge

I’ll write about the sea–

one part calm, one part stormy

and oh, how I thrive in both,

how I am both,

that I would continue to be both.

Maybe I could write about you someday with no regrets

And finally lay these bones of longing to rest.