cunctatious, flirtatious, and unostentatious,
plus being calm, cool and collected,
but he haint disputatious!

I'm buried with child

As I am the only child left behind
With no forthcoming
Or night shadows
My pillows are soaked with prayers
As my knees are pale of beliefs
The strategy of enlightenment
Gets to be grasped by the thin layers of faith

I am still becoming
With nothing in hand

But

I can hear your voice
Echoing
In the hollow of my chest
Whispering memories
Not meant to be cruel
But, somehow,
Are haunting

I’ve learned
The language of the shadows
Trying to tell you
“I love you”
One last time

I’ve asked for signs,
And found them—
The hugs you give me
In the mist of the night,
And how you touch my cheek
With raindrops…

I know you’re still here,
But if I let the first tear fall,
I’ll drown.

Its itchy
The light is too bright
My skin too tight
Why must loneliness
BE.SO.VISERAL.
Oh how you love me.
Oh how you cry for me.
I don't deserve it.
I want to dance for you.
I want to sing for you.
I want the world to know,
You are my daughter.
My star,
My hope,
My blood,
My face,
My stubborn nature.
You are so beautiful,
It's humbling.

I'm scared I'll fail you.
You deserve so much more.

Rainbows bow down. As they should.

I watched her whirling,
edge-curled, sun-bleached, blown.
Bone-dry memory,
autumn-worn, shaky,
a remnant breath,
a child’s treasured hount.

The leaf lay there,
having completed its first purpose.

Now, with green colors receding,
it gives a final performance. The stage its own,

showcasing a myriad of unexpected hues,
highlighted by droplets of water.

The language of color
telling a story for anyone to see.

The following poem posted about a half hour before the bewitching hour that spelled calamity (which though a freaky Friday the thirteenth) did (nor does) not find me exceptionally superstitious, and rather than wait for the morrow, I feel so pent up with aggravation concerning chronic checking account issues linkedin to Citizens Bank a need for a healthy distraction finds me sharing a tragi-comic combination of contusions upon body electric of mine at that time a forty year old father of two young daughters.

She drifts across
the bones left
on the mountaintop—
whisking away
a hiker’s final breath.

The gale
sprays saltwater,
rocks the ship
of lost explorers.

She rips through houses
of the innocent,
hearing their screams
threaded through gusts.

She listens to soft cries
as her breeze
wanders graveyards,
carrying echoes away.

The scent
of petrichor trails her
before rainfall—
and of pumpkin pie
through an open
Thanksgiving window.

If Love, that wretched ruse,
If she be a noose...

I beseech! Let me hang,
It's the gallows I choose!

May rope smooch and bruise
With Love's hold, bone shatter

And let no lip, dare,
A word of pity, utter. 

There, as I grow cold
Know this, O pitiful world!

It was deadly and lovely
That thing I sought

By noose' and neck’ embrace
It was caught, it was bought

Nestled in rope’s grievous grace
Neck and noose, snug and taut.

And revenge is such a bitter fruit,
when there's nothing left to gain.
Rebuke, might be your silence,
it should be a sweet refrain.

The satisfaction of being right,
is much better left unsaid,
I think I'll trade it for a place to rent,
that space inside your head.