Poetry · Writing


I have to write.

I stare at this blank page

and it stares back

taunts me.

It feeds off me

like a leech it

feast on my fears for breakfast

and sips my anxiety like tea.

Never satisfied

until I write.

So here I sit

Staring through this open window

waiting for the magic.

From a home I can’t explain

neighbor of imagination

down the block from love

Or is it hate.

Next to the house that always cooks barbecue.

That smell that sweeps the block

through open windows

love hate relationship with your belly

as it fights for something more.

Yet, here I sit

waiting for the magic.

Watching this orange fuck

slowly crush our stars

gathering Universal’s Minions

calling himself Gru

wasting on a par 4

stealing candy from unborn babies

from the home that he

is burning to the ground.

Closing our window

after only a few months



Need to-

Look for the magic.

Gather fingertips

the window is still open


Don’t fly

We still have to fight.


Here I stand.


silent page.

Starting at the open window.

Needing to make humans think

think twice

and tell them a lie

that this window

Will always be open.

Poetry · Writing


The black panther lives in the rainforest.

This is the home of Faith.

The promising work of a florist.

Home forever even as a wraith.


Enchanting the world with sunny kisses.

Always with you like a reprise.

True nature’s cheery missus.

In spring time, love is carried on the breeze.


Her beauty undeniable by all.

All wanted to see what she could achieve.

Impossible to foresee thee befall.

This panther bows as she takes her leave.


All panthers ache and weep.

Rest now in your beauty sleep.


Poetry · Writing

Honey Dip

Sweet surrender of a knife of faith

on a chilly holiday weekend.

Rear view mirror fogs

and the quiet of her lips bound


suffocating the white around his finger tips.

Chest beats around his clinch

balancing her like a scale

on a moon

and the taste of honey

springs down his lips.

Poetry · Writing

Down Side of Us

The Churches said it well.

Catered to the individual

solemn bells rang

the light pierced the sanctum

and we evolved.

Not in belief

in expression.

words exchange.

Stocked the cupboard

the same Sunday afternoon

stocked full

for thee to come.

And the light will corress our skin

and linger.

Poetry · Writing


Struggling everyday

carrying it with me

in my stomach


It could be

it could

be the last first time

or stretching rejection.

The birds chirped by as I wrote that

singing along with the melody

carrying the tune

for me.

Will down this poison together

and will both live

in Verona