Alphabet soup settles,


beguiles, during rainy cold


churning with exes and ohs


dancers in memory


exclaims of thorn and rose;




forget me, forget me not:


Gerbera, Daisy, Peony  


holds the eye to


illuminate petals


jarred in metal and glass




Kisses’ wet imprint


lost under debris and touch:


manmade, fabricated, rushed,


natural, earthy, a simmering broth


opens chambers heavy in locks




Quotes from Shakespeare,


“Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”


“Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?”


“The course of true love never did run smooth.”


“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.”




Verity is best with diamonds and poems


warming in a bowl, letters,


Xeroxing the thoughts in her head:


yesterday, today, and tomorrow


Zigs and zags to fill a ceramic night.



The Soloist

The night he limped outside of this life

certain to cleave the burden of chains,

she danced with friends and toasted the room,

clueless to his strain she stayed.


Their rhythm was, once, 

a ball change with perfect form, syncopated.

Combined heartbeats–

their music to quiet the storm.


Through his veins a beat pumped:

solo, solo, solo.

He took to a stage furthest from home

to save her from his blood red moon.


The Reason Why She’s Late

He could run the shortest time,

from there to her then the farm:

for the dinner bell was chiming;

he added a dash of charm.

Horses whinnied and neighed 

as they trotted past the barn.

What are they to each?

She waited with bated breath.

Through the front door, 

he turned to her and smiled.

The electricity charged her for 

the coming face-to-face.

He said, “Mom, Dad,

 I’d like you to meet 

the reason why I’m late.”