Poetry

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,
soft
my breath
tip toe, tingle, tear apart my
tattered soul
folded like
an old
newspaper, words
faded
but still
hold
the same meaning.
shredded like
t he smoky
shadows
between our
embrace
enrobed in the glow
of the street lamp.
Your kiss is jazz
in a dark room full of
smoky shadows.

A Death in the Family – My Own Rebirth

Hi friends.

Soon after I stopped blogging here, I just stopped blogging. Not only did I give up my blogs, but I gave up writing altogether as well as anything creative. Why, I can’t really say. Depression, lack of will, lack of time, boredom, lack of ideas, not giving a damn…

My dad died suddenly in November and I’ve been bombarded with so many emotions and writing has always been my way to cope, to express, etc. So now I find myself again searching for an outlet to share my pain, my grief, my guilt, even my happiness. As my dad always supported my creative endeavors and would be disappointed at my doing nothing. I started a new wordpress for this purpose, thinking that this one had been deleted. I can’t express how delighted and refreshed I feel reading through my old posts, rereading poems that I wrote so seemingly long ago.
For a while now, I’ve been a member of the secondlife virtual community. Recently I became involved with a group of artists in an online university setting, so to speak; like-minded individuals creating and sharing. This has also inspired me in many ways to get back into the arts.  Something in my soul is crying out for my return to this world, and so here I am.

Rest in Peace, Daddio Sep 4 1952 - Nov 3 2014

Peace-out, Daddio
Sep 4 1952 – Nov 3 2014

Exhale

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.