Sweetest Rain

wet leaves

She said their rain was like syrup
he thought it odd 
until the first few drops fell 
and he licked his lips, 
spoke of forever without a sound,                 
kissed her, 
tasting the sweetest essence
there ever was.




Morning Sky

X in the sky 9.17.17

Even the clouds know
and don’t tiptoe
around what they want to say,
they kissed my morning
and painted your soft whispers
stealing my breath away.
Even the blackbird knows
and circles slow
like languid fingers at play
along heated flesh
wings spread in flight
he knows our someday.
Even the treetops know
and gently blow
in a subtle sway
their branches reach
far and wide
embracing true hearts in sun’s rays.



Quiet as Rain

I was floundering a bit creatively, and this Patten inspired line was graciously offered by my dear friend Nigel at Voices of a Hidden Self.

“You come to me quiet as rain not yet fallen” –  Patten


In the hushed, vibrant energy pulsating the sky
you come to me.
Love’s magic trailing windsong
blankets melodic memories new.
My summer dress slides away with inhibitions –
smells of long ago desires, fires that burn
even now.  You come to me.
Quiet as 
a bell not yet rung
tumbling tension.

We reach for each other
fresh familiar filled with wonder.
What was the past even like?
Only faint lines give the time away
and we smooth them with gentle strokes

of our forever.  You come to me with a song
in your heart, unafraid of what we’ll find here.

Our paradise unfolds in quickening breaths
the shape of our life, perfectly pierces the years
spent searching through all the rest.
It’s easy when we’ve always known
what fate would show, and you come to me
quiet as the senses wrapped
 in longing
before its release.



Heat flickers beneath a blissful dream
an insatiable hunger leaves me breathless,
dances at the edge of a shimmering spring.
Remove doubt,
let down fear unseen.
Echo-spilled spice
peppers a soft, curling breeze.
Whispers melt, cue the dawn.
Don’t wake me from this dream.



Unchain the passive pen
locked up tight in a bottom drawer
full of dinged hope,
strands of faux starts, and quaking indecision.
Curse the crow at the crossroads
against its watchful form
chase bracing winds
through open fields of wild words.


Sunday Whirl


That One Gray Day

Chased a fly out of the fridge
he didn’t seem to want to leave
maybe he liked the cold
clinging to his everything.
It was probably better than witnessing
the desolate heart denied
reaching deep for that gallon gorge
of raw regret and fury fried.
Fell asleep to cartoons –
it’s a comfort thing.
Daylight dismissed itself
twilight began to sting.
Sweet wine flowed
nothing to show but a broken stem
misplaced memories
always rise up again.