Creative Writing

Your Kiss is Jazz

Your kiss is jazz in a
dark room full of
smoky shadows
and the breeze
that blows the curtain
quiver crazy
laughter stops,
my breath
tip toe, tingle, tear apart my
tattered soul
folded like
an old
newspaper, words
but still
the same meaning.
shredded like
t he smoky
between our
enrobed in the glow
of the street lamp.
Your kiss is jazz
in a dark room full of
smoky shadows.


The Black Cloak

She kissed her mother’s head passionately until the smell of her hair filled her to her toes.
In what had become an evening routine, she walked back down the narrow tiled hall, counting the steps it took her to arrive to her own room where she gracefully wrapped her black cloak around her slender frame. With a quick glance to the mirror, she tucked the few stray raven hairs beneath the satin fabric of her scarf and said a quick prayer before getting into bed. 
She took the folded paper from the table at her side and put it in her pocket, as she did night after night. It was a letter to her best friend, just in case. 

Tonight was the night, my dear Salma, it began. They took my life, but not my dignity. 

When morning came, the dust had just settled. As the area was cleared, there she was: the girl in the black cloak lying among the rocks and wreckage of her former home; her eyes wide open, but far, far away. 


800px-Bare_Oak_TreeShe is the light in every room.
She is the shard of glass that dances across the floor
after the bulb has shattered into a million pieces,
all like her but none like her because she dances
and they only fall.
She is the open window and the curtain blowing;
she is the breeze that causes bumps to rise up on your skin
while you sleep in the middle of a naked night.
She is the bead of sweat that forms just below your nose
after the chill is gone and the twilight is torrid and tempered.
She is the morning sun that enters your eyes
when you first wake, and the first word
that pushes its delicate head through the space
between your sleepy lips. She is the inhale that follows.
I am the exhale, the emission,
absorbed into the trees.

Child Runaway

I was a child runaway
inspired by hobos and train hoppers
possessions in a pillowcase
thrown over my shoulder
(no harmonica, though).

The farthest I got
was the strip of woods
at the edge of my cal-de-sac .
I dug a hole to house my goods
and dined on canned pears.

It got colder after sunset
but I had forgotten my jacket.
The bathing suit wouldn’t do
and I couldn’t start the fire.
I went back home and had a bath.

I think next time I run away from home,
I bring along my mother.
She always knew how
to strike a match
and pack a coat
and draw a bath.