Love me loving myself (Poem)



(Photo Yoanne Boyer)

Of course I want you to love me
For who i am! Not for what you think I should be
This isn’t Ralph Lauren you don’t get to choose
I’d rather sing rock and roll, than sing the blues
I want you to love me because quite frankly
I’m just like you

I’m as needy as you are needy
I’m as boring and frightfully dull
I can laugh till my side aches
And cry when my heart breaks
And I love moments when I’m the king of it all.

I’m as delightful as you are delightful
And I grow sad and so morose about the passing of time
I count gray hairs and crows feet lines
I groan when I see that’s a quarter til five
And I haven’t been to sleep, not a wink, not at all

But of course, I want you to love me
For who I am, I’ll let you know who that is when I know
Cause right now I’m as lost as you are lost
Stumbling forward, crashing, smashing onward ever forward
As Queen once sang, ‘…on with the show.’

I’m as wretched as you are wretched
And I grow more discontent by the day
As i grow older my patience grows thinner
My eyes grow dimmer, Everything grows slimmer
Yet someone forgot to tell my waist

I’m as sweet as you are precious
But my sweetness is reserved for those who deserve it
Not for those who I simply pass by
Nor for those who’ve made a habit of making me cry
I’m getting too old for other people’s bullshit

So, yes, Yes! Please, by all means love me!
But understand if I won’t wear a mask for you
I won’t trade myself, place who I am on a shelf
If that means you have to leave
Well, you have to do what’s best for you

For I am as worthy as you are worthy
And there is history behind my voice
But my voice is my own, my opinions full grown
Loving one’s self is a toast to your health
And loving myself is my choice

Hashtag: Likesarebetterthanlove (poem)




Love is bleeding to death
body on the ground
crimson drops flow from his/her wrist
no words from pale white lips
eyes as blue as the sky

People step over
liberal and not
conservative and not
too stuck inside themselves to look down
too angry to see what could easily be found

For every missed opportunity
another cut is made as the sky opens up
fast fingers replying harsh words
tap, tap, tapping out the sound of his/her cry

“Gotcha, bitch
“Told ya, fool”
how about them republicunts?
All Racist, got nothing else going on”

“Yeah, well
I would be like you
but I don’t require triggers for days that end in Y
speaking of cunt, tell your mom I said, ‘hi’, son.”

Words lodge in the skin

each blow taking his/her life a little closer
to the edge
the lady/man in white begins to match their robe
face changing with each missed opportunity
as their life fades away

One stops looks down
see’s his/her sad state of affairs
the glow from their phone lighting their face
and is horrified to see her own on the victim

She sees her hair fanned out on the concrete

The figure is a mirror image now
‘Save Aleppo’ written on the shirt she wears
she sees her conservative father’s eyes
and bites her lip

yet, instead of kneeling
praying, begging, pleading
she leans over and with a flash of white light, whispering
“I just instagramed the shit out of you,”

Caption this, she types
hashtag lost, hashtag forgotten
hashtag allthefeels
hastag toobusytho
as she stands back up and steps over

One like, two like, three like four
She smirks and walks on,

Hashtag:Likeisbetterthanlove these days

The Rain Remains the Same (Poem)


(Photo: Eutah Mizushima)



There is cool wind and sweet smells on the air tonight
As a storm rolls in from the south
Like a gentle push, the humidity flees and the sweet fragrance that was held down
Is flung heavenward as the thunder begins to roll
The raindrops fall in earnest, and the ground sighs with pure delight
And releases tendrils of white mist like ghosts rising from the tomb
The drops are cool almost cold
On my flush skin
And memory leaps forward in my mind
and drags me back in time to remind me
Of every rainstorm I have ever heard
All at once, I am but a child, watching from my window
And then a young soldier taking shelter in a tank
Soon, a young lover listening to the patter on a breath fogged window after we were spent
And now a married man, with money in the bank
each storm reminds me of
How long the journeys been
So many roads, lines upon my face
And history behind my name
But there’s a comfort in knowing that no matter who, and what, and where I’ve been
The rain remains the same.

…because my lover’s lying there (poem)

I believe in God when I see the sun crests over the horizon,
when the rain taps upon my window pane and the scent of sweet olive wafts sweet perfumes from it’s chalice
the sweet intoxication of it’s scent lingers invisibly upon the humid June morning air.
But it’s at night, and for far more mundane things have been done
when the carpet’s been vacuumed, and dinner put away
after the dog’s been walked, a show on Netflix watched and lovin’ had
I believe in God, not for some miraculous start of a day, because I see my lover lying there

Oh, but the trees in springtime (poem)


(Photo by Kevin Young)


oh, but the trees in springtime
when the bud first opens and litters the ground with it’s remains
and the tender petals emerge, fresh and palest green
upon the face of a stately tree that bore the winter snow
with ease – slumbering, white powder on black branches
alighted occasionally by a visiting blue jay or cardinal, red
awakened by the golden kiss of heaven – all spring long it stretches itself upward and onward in a slow, luxurious yawn
drinking heavily from the sky turned black with terrible rumbles of thunder
the tender peddles flip to expose their bellies while the world and the cardinals shiver in fright

Oh, but the trees in springtime
when fat fisted children reach into the grass the fall before
and pull back two or three winged seeds
from Maple trees and scream in delight as they helicopter
to the ground
next to the trunk older than their mother’s mother
and just as watchful
now remembers why she loved those children as children of her own sprout up just outside the reach of her canopy

Oh, but the trees in springtime
but the liveoak seems almost like a god of ancient times
with a base as wider than a man can embrace
with tree limbs stronger than the river flows
who – in the fall drops acorns faster than squirrels can gather
the spirits within you can hear snort with mirth – when one of their artillery happens to fall on someone’s head
they don’t call them Live Oak – for nothing

But oh, the trees in springtime
new leaves combined with the smell of the earth
new life as old creatures give away to new birth
promise a thousand days underneath the cool of their shade
is where I read my favorite book
and upon my shoulder and neck and side of my face
sunlight dappled touch kisses me every time the wind
run’s its fingers through the branches


The truth is…(Poem)




(Photo: Matthew Henry )

We try to divine what we know
or what we think we know
in terms of people and places
and things
We tell ourselves these narratives
that only reinforce our prejudice
against others as well as ourselves

But the mile less trodden on
uncut in fields rarely visited
when the sun’s direct light
bakes they clay hard and fills
the surrounding sky with scent of sweet grass
and pungent dried earth
truth awaits us

In this field
where the blue dragonfly alights the Black Eyed Susan
it’s gossamer wings only a moment’s hesitation
before its dash back into the summer air
and in this field where the grasses make warm beds
for nursing deer
Truth awaits us

In this field
where the only sound breaking through the whisper
of wind running it’s fingers through the grasses
or the buzz of a worker bee diligent about
his duties
is the truth ready to be spoken to an ear willing to hear it

And that truth is sometimes the healing hurts as bad as the hurting did when the hurting first happened to us
So we fill our heads with static
whispers about neighbors, about ourselves
never thinking that pain doesn’t have to be
the destination
it can just be the journey

The Day is Done by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Poem)


(Photo by: Jeroen Andel)


Today I would like to share with you my favorite poem, The Day is Done by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

To me, this is one of the most beautiful poems ever written, and if recited correctly, can bring me to tears.

There’s something about it that calls to the weariness in me and the hopefulness of rest.

I hope you enjoy it.

The day is done, and the darkness
      Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
      From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
      Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
      That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
      That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
      As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
      Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
      And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
      Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
      Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
      Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
      And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
      Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
      Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
      And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
      Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
      The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
      That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
      The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
      The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
      And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
      And as silently steal away.


Til my lover comes back home (poem)




(Photo by Taylor Durrer)

I can smell rain soaked earth
at five thirty in the mornin’
have my headphones in
two steppin’ to merry mystic music
as the night-wind is still
tangible  around me

Leash in hand, dog at my side
I mouth the lyrics as I walk
counting the footsteps as I step
in cadence with the Rhythm
its the replacement beat for the absence of my lover
who’s gone to work before the sun breaks over the horizon

I’m the king, however
Fred Astair nor Ginger Rogers
couldn’t hold a candle to the smile
slipping on my face this morning
I am the headliner, dog walker extraordinaire
present half of a heart half missing
catching cadence to Rock n Roll
til my lover comes back home

25 1/2 Hours and 18 years ago (Poem)


(Photo by Bart Anestin)


Twenty five and a half hours from now *plus eighteen years ago* I stopped walking the Streets of Detroit looking for you.
Your two kids were upstairs waiting for you. I called Rick and told him.
And then went home to bed.
I got up for work the next day, worked a full shift, came home and my dad walked into my room to tell me you were dead.
Heroine and Booze is a deadly cocktail and according to the autopsy report – your heart stopped so suddenly you didn’t even have time to brace yourself before you fell.
It was a hard life lesson for me.
One that says love doesn’t always win.
It was the first time i’d lost someone that meant a great deal to me.
You were a friend when i needed one the most.
But you had your demons.
It’s okay.
Everyone does. I understand that, now.
Goodness isn’t a person, badness isn’t a person, these are states of being. Transition places like happy or sad or mad.
You were good – you just had a weakness about you – a handicap.
I miss you. I think you would have liked the way I grew up.
I thought about you in that fuzzy place between wakefulness and sleep.
Suddenly, you were there after all this time.
I’m glad you are. It was nice to see you again.
I love you but i’m sure you know that, now.

Which way do I go? (Poem)

So, April is national poetry month. So, I asked several people on my social media to give me prompts to write about. This one comes from a friend named Sue. Her prompt was, “Out of Step with Everyone Else.”

I hope you like it.


Left, possibly
Right, maybe
Perhaps I’ll just let the stars tell me
2,000 years of collective human knowledge
And the world is stumbling over itself.

I’m not sure where to begin, now
Everyone says they have the answer, how?
How do they know which way is up
When it seems the whole world is upside down?

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
For Frost that was enough
But the road less taken has been taken
Till it’s worn right down

I – am but a woman
But I am every woman when Chaka
Sings soulfully through the earbuds in my ears

When I walk my dogs through the park
I see the birds and trees and think
That nothing could possibly be wrong
But I feel so out of place

Now, which way to go?
That’s the million dollar question
Do I follow midnight’s long procession and wait
For the sun to speak to me which direction I must Trod?

Or do I decide to cast my gaze inward
Find my truth built somehow inside me
And let my footfalls fall upon my undiscovered country
of self-reliance or some untapped reservoir of faith?

Right, possibly
Go left, I dunno, maybe
But wherever I go I don’t think I have to
Fear teeming crowds of curious minds

For they’ve all made their decisions
Embracing clichéd difference of opinions
From Humble neighborhoods, straight on through to
Beverly Hills

So, I’ll find my path my own way
Listening solely to my own conscience
Change direction when I feel the earth trying
To tell me what I should already know

For I am wiser than my years, now
I know easy answers are mostly low brow
So, I’ll dig my own path willingly, deftly
Fearlessly, until like Stevie
I’ve taken this love and I’ve taken it down
having found the answers then…then, I’ll turn around