You toss me watercolor daisies,

when my hands would conjure you a garden

of blazing bouquets, if you hint just the least.

For one minute, if you’d care at all.


You sing me listless tunes you’ve worn,

when my fingers would line out such symphonies

of sounds never heard, if you join just the least.

For one minute, if you’d sing along.


You press crumpled paper into my fist,

when my purse bursts seams wide with gold-full,

of riches never seen, if you’d open just the least.

For one minute, if you’d only let go.

Take it or Leave it

She sweeps the grey misty hair out of her eyes with a swift motion, and resorts her gaze to a newspaper. The horizon lost its fascination with the silent lowering of a large yellow orb into the water. At sundown, darkness approached, and cut off both view and horizons. Emotions slip in and out of the recesses of her mind, like photographs fading between the pages of an album. Empty expectations eat at her soul. She’d later silence these heart appetites by gnawing on a few inner reserves.

After all, rapping at the door of hope gave no answer. Surprise, unfortunately, showed up at the same threshold too often. Disruptive variety replaced anticipation. Long arms hung limp with the years, along with her heart. Today, she had waited … to no avail.

Gifts arrived on the front stoop… simple boxed events tipping her life this way and that. Today appeared empty of such. Within the quiet chaos she lived frugally and wistfully imagined the faraway world as charitable. These outside receipts had kept her alive. Parcels, when metered out carefully, carried her one to the next.

She grew to check desires against the means and learned to recognize the seeds of things. She sowed a bit of garden within an inside courtyard. This crop rendered her tiny master of this small domain. She put up pantries full of jars. When snow covered the ground, whimsical couriers failed. Men were fickle. Under a clear sky, and shining sun, all turned friendly once more. But in the cold and dark… her own stores kept her warmed and fed.

She moves inside, away from the dim porch. Tonight’s biting wind hints at the shadows of winter. Instead of turning toward the middle of the compound, she looks down the same gravel road. One more good night’s rest…. she could manage the walk.

Turning to the hearth, she states to no one,

“Done with it all’….  ‘tomorrow, I go. Any crap can wait.’

She thrilled quietly and pictured her own little stoop underneath piles of baggage.


Ear Worm

iTunes play, beat at timeless unfinished melody.

Heavy notes hang melancholy on suspended phrases.

Dangle uncoupled half-rhyme above cadences,

unreached, neither authentic, nor perfect.

Twist tangled heart-worms into inmost ears,

String half-songs, loop confused strains on never-end.

Blind cacophony violates with unchosen playlists.

Whilst visions of Muzak lull you to sleep.