Curled up next to an empty bowl
with a book and a blanket.
Window cracked open...

Is the first time I was jealous
of Chef Boyardee.
It had nothing to do with cooking.
She was wearing a t-shirt
almost too small
faded yellow from coin laundry
and discount detergent.
Boy shorts.
Warm ravioli with meat sauce
in her mouth.
I used to make her smile like that.

Have you ever thought of girls
as being chameleons?
Absorbing the beauty around them
or enhancing it?

I've exhausted myself figuring
them out, understanding,
listening, watching, and failing
to capture anything.

It's like catching a shooting star
in the lens of your camera.
If you're lucky it looks like
a smudge of light.

The struggle to know more
will always motivate me
but like wild creatures
the danger increases.

The closer you get,
distacted by them,
the greater the chance
you will disappear.

a quiet lake bench
carrying on conversations
with albino mallards
and a beautiful girl
warm hand on her knee
through cut up jeans
fingers playing with the frays
too cold for sandals...

dodging damp willow branches
there could be alligators
in the Midwest
some unwanted pet
returned to nature
for a better chance

grabbing a cherry blossom
and taking it in
on the walk back
how many loves
has that lattace
been witness to
i wonder

Breakfast

brilliant fingers of color
stretched across a cloudless sunrise.

a morning dove races shadows
over orange tinted grass.

walking on gravel
to grab the paper.

exhaling a smile of fresh air,
she is on your mind.

remembering her lips
taste like cookies.

chocolate chip or peanut butter.
either. with creme and sugar
coffee.

pure, a vibrant center,
yellow, a daisy.

pink ribbons,
curled around wet stems.

an old wooden tray.
apple juice and cinnamon toast.

kisses on the cheek.
one on the lips.

Too tired to write
is a weak excuse

Lack of inspiration
is too cliche

Does it matter
who will read this

I've already failed
a few days

Maybe nothing at all
is better than poor attempts

I should focus
instead of Ninja Warrior

One more
make that two

another dollar in the drawer
music to my ears

Frustration is writing.
I could not persuade
three little pigs
with a pen full of mud
or a roasted wolf dinner
at this point.
Poetry is a forced innovation
of expressing old lies.
Being an author, allegedly,
is a right to lie.
I plead truth is easier,
if I could entice
anyone enough to care.
Most would accuse
it a lie anyway:
me claiming to write
about the truth.
Instead I'll elaborate
as these fallacies
feign intelligence
with auto-biographical
fiction. Illustrator
unknown.
.

Drenched from the laces
down, head tilted away
embarassed from the annoyance
of liquid needles,
nature's anesthetic.

The throbbing rain
reminds me of walking
in the dark to see your
fear of thunderstorms.
Teasing you for it,
masking my own thoughts
of perilous tragedy.
Lighting clarifies that fear
as thunder squeezes
my hand even tighter.

Insecurity

The flip on my phone is worn
from looking for you.
I am obsessed with knowing
your thoughts, feeling
your heart, and breathing
your spirit,
constantly.

Torn from restraint
I have to wonder
if I am on your mind.
Encased in desperation,
I wonder and I doubt
reality.

Like an infant
I am weak and curious.
My patience is barren,
waiting for you
to forgive, to satisfy,
my irritating nature.

a response poem, of sorts

In an uncomfortable chair
scanning piles of poems,
across from perfection...

I am reading her, again
and I can't put her away.
She is undefineable.

Stealing a glance
from my reading
I catch her smiling.

Their words are worthless now.
maybe masterpieces, erased
from staring through her.

Beautiful is cliche.
Her eyes sparkle...
Does she notice, I wonder?

I care
and she is happy.

Another poem for class

Fowl Foal
after Danse Macabre by Norman Dubie


A worn saddle was perched on a rotten fencepost
on the edge of a field of spinach.
Pop-eyes, the old men called them, flowery
heads that only scarecrows would
mind…

No one at Cliff’s garage
could ever recall a car
crashing into a horse’s skull. Sure enough,
the tire had blown, skidded
through the fence
and plowed through the barn.

Had it been April, someone
could have helped put out the fire.
As the car exploded like a gunshot,
violent black smoke choked the air.
Blowing the stench from its nostrils
a lone foal whinnied,
then smiled and pranced
with the methodical movements
of a marionette –

Its cruel smile for the true irony.

Expressions can kill
the one person
you would die for

Leaving yourself vulnerable
a slap in the face
from your own hand

It is best to leave
some words unpaged
than to break a heart

you value above your own.
Don't pass the pain along
because you are weak.

Deal with it yourself.
Write something worth more
than the time you spent on it

Three years....
I can barely remember
what you look like
without going through old shoeboxes
Greyish green sideburns
you said were from glasses worn
for forever, too long.
Trying to listen to you is harder
That answering machine
is a dusty box neighbor to a VCR.
I almost erased it
and gave it to a girl.
You would have liked her.

I'm gonna try to do a poem a day since it's poetry month and all. I doubt any masterpieces will be produced, but maybe a good idea or two and a couple nice lines.