Green Button

I make up reasons
to dial his number,
to say that I'm sorry,
or just to say goodbye,
so I can justify
this stupid decision
to myself once I've hung up
and thought it through.
I'll claim good intentions,
when really,
I just wanted to feel
close, wanted, and loved again.
I have no good intentions,
just selfish wishes
to rewind the time
for a few minutes.
Truth is,
I don't want to go back,
I don't want to restart,
I just want to feel that way
one more time.
And there's nothing in the world
that can make that okay,
and nothing I can tell myself
to ease my conscience.
So before I pick up the phone
and press that Green button
I think of what I'm doing
and who I'm doing it to.

I put the phone on the cradle,
and step away.

Seconds

This is another poem from one of my old poetry books. I wanted to post this one because it's so different from how I write now, yet I still love this kind of writing. Again, let me know what you think ! 


No vacancy, 
no place, no room, 
empty, yet full, 
turned away, like every other time. 
Lights off, dark halls, 
empty graves, hollow words, 
desolate, a place to call home, 
among the homeless and the fatherless; 
rest in peace. 
Far across from the corners of this emptiness, 
drawn from the black rivers, 
hung from the dead branches, 
are pieces of the puzzle, 
out of reach, undiscovered. 
Names and dates, 
faces and answers, 
fleeting. 
Ever so fleeting. 
Just like the time, 
now, now, now, now, now, 
You've failed me now. 
And now. 
fleeting...
and now. 

Red Ribbon

His eyes are dull
like the skies
after the sun hides,
and this isn't the first time
he's tripped over
the reasons,
the seasons,
and the treason.
But this time,
he can't point his finger
at any other traitor
but himself.

Her hands are dry
like a parched land
after a long drought,
and this is the last time
she'll overlook
the reasons,
the seasons,
and the treason.
There is no time
for blind eyes
and the only blind one
has been herself.

Oh, the dangers that arise from being imperfect in love.

Welcome

"Welcome home"

echoes in my ears 

as our car pulls in

to the snow-dusted driveway. 

And the stars are uncovered, 

because the clouds are away, 

and it's with tired eyes

that I behold them. 

My feet are wet 

from all the slush, 

and I regret wearing summer shoes 

in the middle of February. 

But what matters most

as I walk through the garage 

is that I am here, 

and the miles separate. 

I am welcomed home, 

by what is known 

and by what is old 

nothing new, 

nothing has changed, 

and in this season 

where nothing is constant, 

"home" is what I need. 

Maybe I'll smile. 

Black Eyed Susan's

I pick the dead blooms, 

off of my Grandmother's black-eyes susan's, 

thinking of those words you used to say

about death and what comes next. 

There's a little bit of yellow left, 

in each expired flower, 

to remind me of what it once was. 

You used to say we never amount to anything, 

and that this life is just a waiting room

holding us to time we can't escape. 

I ignore your dribble about meaninglessness. . . 

A green grass marred with flower corpses, 

reminds me of what your hope looks like. 

You cover the light, you erase every smile. 

The next dead flower on the ground will be you. 

Now and Then...

I like to think about how back in the century when this castle was built, it was a normal building. Nothing grand, nothing fancy or special. Today we celebrate it as marvelous and fantastic. I just find that interesting...