“While I’m writing, I’m far away; and when I come back, I’ve gone.”– Pablo Neruda In the darkest hours when loneliness calls my name stormy tears threatening with thunder and lightning pain and I refuse to see the torrential rain. Instead, I pen sun…
Why, my lady art thou blue are barren lips longing for stolen kisses?
And in the middle watch hours, Loneliness cries out your name as I reach for the cold pillow where your head once lay.
“If we don’t know life, how can we know death?” Confucius We all must die this I know, but the puzzle that remains is why some go before growing old, snatched from life before their time.
My grandmother’s bedroom was my favorite room in her house. She was without a doubt the most famous person I’ve ever known. She was once a blues singer in Vaudeville, a graceful swan now retired to the country. She had an old-fashioned vanity dresser…
If I should pass by you on a warm summer’s eve when azure sky is a canvas, awash in soft hues would your eyes shimmer with tears, would you know it’s me?
Lust hastens in enticing your innocent heart with grandiose plans of a lifetime to spend in one another’s arms.
Love, like the bright moon waxes and wanes in the breath of a summer wind flourishing in all seasons both barren and abundant
When the Santa Anas rage across the desert floor they fell even mighty saguaros who’ve lived for many decades. Howling and roaring they march, creating a wall of dust as jackrabbits run for their sheltered nests. Hairy tarantulas scurry to their burrows, diving underground to avoid…
The panacea for these lips that yearn to taste the essence is the way the light hits on the glass of ruby wine for hidden in its shadows of blood-red luminescence lies the absolution and restitution for a stressful life.
It seems like only yesterday since you took your last breath. Life circles and cycles through, we carry on, as if nothing important happened when we said goodbye.