22 4 / 2014

Poetry Month: Poem #15


You told me

to meet you at the place

behind time

when the hour strikes

the clearing between my heart

and yours.

you gave me instructions

on how to get there,

gave me the key

to thoughts

protected by walls of memories.

With each minute that passed

you moved slowly away


"I will see you there"

I waited for the sun and moon

to collide

to merge

to subside

waited for clock hands to move

for places to clear

so I can see the way there

You told me

to meet you at the place

behind time

Then put me in a dark room

Where I can not know hours or minutes of years

Told me to watch out for

ticking clocks

then took all the watches away.

I wrote down our appointment

in black ink on stone mountains and a sea breeze

Painted your face on wings of birds and on the insides of barks of trees.

I remembered day in and day out

the where and the when

instead I got a note

"I shall never see you again"

22 4 / 2014

Poetry Month: Poem #14


I have built walls of glass

covered with paint of steel

and called it home

they shimmered

,strong as they might seem,

giving illusions

of impenetrable strongholds

I have played

with words and light

to ward away

burglars and thieves

you cannot have this heart

you cannot touch me

uf you stay too little to really see

that it only takes a small tap

and a gentle push

to bring down glass walls

with paints of steel

17 4 / 2014

Poetry Month: Poem #13



I told you I’d travel to the places you missed. I wish you’d let me spend that time with you instead.



My first stop was italy. I ate all the pasta, pizza and gelato I could stomach. The pizza was awful, you romanticized it too much.



The Vatican was amzing and morbid all at once. There was too much art and too little praying. You would have loved it.



Greece was as beautiful as it was in Captain Correlli’s mandolin. I couldn’t find the captain, though, he must have been playing his tunes somewhere else.



I miss you, today I saw someone who looked so much like you I had to talk to him. I told him about you, he sends his love.



I stole one of your hats before I left, the french poor-boy one I love. I left it on the head of a statue looking at the Eiffle tower.

Love H-


I come home tomorrow. I brought you gelato, a picture of the man that looks like you and a mandolin. See you



We had a deal, I wish you’d waited a little while longer. Rest, my love, we will travel together soon.

Goodbye, H-

17 4 / 2014

Poetry Month: Poem #12


My favorite moments

are those when I get to see

someone’s emotions

when they think no one is looking

When true feelings

surface on faces

How proud he is of a daughter

he spent too long worrying about

how she tears up when

she sees a drawing her child drew of her

the way he looks at her,

the love


from his eyes

longing to tel her

how she lights up heaven and earth

Or the tears

that slip from the broken hearted

when they understand what they lost

humans are lying, pretending


cloaking truths, feelings, emotions

losing more than they protect.

But, in those moments

they show through the curtains

and their souls


16 4 / 2014

litglob asked: Ok this: As you know, I fiddle around with poetry when the time permits. My problem is, poetry seeps things from my brain that I would never disclose when I sober up from verse and I know that I can not hold them in when my poem leaks from my brain to my pen. This is the beauty of poetry. Sometimes you read something and reread it and it really resonates and it's like a little bit of truth. Not just something that's true but "truth." If tht makes sense. Anyhow really great stuff, and thanks!

"Resonates" is the best compliment I could have gotten for this piece. Thank you for that.

16 4 / 2014

Dear Mr. Clem #9

Dear Mr. Clem

Spring came back again, loving, warm, and full of memories. I remember how only a year ago I was so happy despite all that was going on, I did not know that I was making memories I would find too hard to let go. I did not know that it may be the only couple of months when I’d know reality and the rest that would follow would be so surreal that I would confuse everything with imagination.


I have a confession, Clem, I used to write letters long before I wrote to you. My letters all started with “dearest” . I have been writing them, letter after letter, never sent, never seen and practically, never have been.

My notebook ended the other day, filled with my “Dearest” letters and I had a hard time putting it away with the others. I knew that it meant I can’t pass by my letters whenever I wanted to, I can’t see them whenever I care to, and I can’t write more of them, I can’t bear to.

As you know, I fiddle around with poetry when the time permits. My problem is, poetry seeps things from my brain that I would never disclose when I sober up from verse and I know that I can not hold them in when my poem leaks from my brain to my pen.

Dear Clem, Spring came, with a vengeance; I cannot feel the warmth of April without remembering the sweet taste of mint lemonade, or scribbles on pieces of paper. My “dearest” letters were put to rest but they still leak through poetry and I cannot do anything but write, and hope.

With love,


15 4 / 2014

Poetry Month: Poem #11


Every night

as I lay awake

pushing images away

lulling myself to sleep

i think,

like a child who hasn’t yet

lost too much,

"maybe tomorrow…"

I think

maybe tomorrow I’ll wake

and the months that passed

wouldn’t have elapsed

that the times I held my heart

to tight

lest it falls apart

were a dream.

Maybe tomorrow

I’d see a smile

i got too used to

to forget

I’d hear a sound

i crave more than air in a downing lung



The days I got lost in

would form into a road

to take me back,

the beauty I indulged in

wouldn’t have been a mirage

and find its way back to me

Every day

As I lay awake

lulling myself to sleep

I keep thinking

maybe tomorrow

you’d realize

that i spent memories and dreams

building roads

and mazes

so you can find your way

back to me.

13 4 / 2014

Poetry Month: Poem #10


In school

Our teacher gave us a tuning fork

and told us to beat it against the wall

the sound rang

resonating in childish ears

the vibrations

traveled through arms too weak

to defy them


lies with what scars you

the words they said

the music you heard them sing to you to make you smile

the day they decided

life would be better

If they left

that you were undeserving

of them.


is an illness

we infect ourselves with

when we decide

to keep them

after being thrown away

and a tuning fork

travels along our limbs

every time we decide

to think of them

and the pain


13 4 / 2014

Poetry Month: Poem #9

The bird soared with a hole in its wing

flying with a struggle against the ground.

he beat with his brokenness faster

tried to go farther

he knew that even air

was not to be taken

for granted

Knew that flight

was precious

knew that beating against


with a broken wing

was his destiny

That remaining above ground

was his calling

And he knew

that he will be damned

if he let

a mere hold in his wing

bring him down

13 4 / 2014

Poetry Month: Poem #8

Blank pages inspire fear

Taunting, scorning, demeaning


A truth or dare game

and if you dare

to tell the truth

your win is a lose

in a book that haunts you

Write, child, your deepest

darkest secrets

tell paper and ink

your heart’s desire

it might be, dear one,

what it takes

to put out the fire