I begrudge the eyes

That get to meet yours

Every day.


I am jealous of the pillow

That gets to feel your gentle face

Every morning and every night.


I envy the cigarette

That gets to kiss your soft, pale lips

Every evening.


I covet your warmth.

Why is it that your clothes get to tug your

Coffee-infused, cigar-intoxicating scent?


The whims are driving me insane.

You’re enticing,

And I wrongfully crave your affection.



Upon the dreary glooms of shame,

I’ve wandered around the shore,

The brisk ripples called his name,

And my fancy for him grew more.

My pale cheeks await lest he came,

His delicate hugs and kisses to pour,

The soft wave of blues cannot tame,

Wrecked pieces of him that I adore.

But alas, he was a figment of flame,

An imaginary figure to which I swore,

Currents of longing now not the same,

Since I am not the soul he yearns for.

Child of spring

Atop a hill, my wildflower lies,

Bees on his dainty petals kiss,

A child of spring, and I his lass,

Timid my envy, don’t take amiss.


Sugar surges to the stream of lust,

And I wilt evergreen with jealousy,

Shielding of pollen blown in gust,

Dandled they his skin, so velvety.


But winds that dare to startle him,

At their breach, I fumed and cursed,

Desert my tenderfoot without grim,

My delicate flower is not well versed.


Had the clime to my control attuned,

To a heyday of springtime rosary,

I’d implant nectar to your wounds,

And may our leaves bathe in poetry.

Three seasons

A familiar waft of fragrance suffused,

Stairwells abandoned and broken;

My system to detect it almost refused,

Or at least, grant its access a token.


I counted the previous seasons trine,

Nine months we have not spoken,

Lord knows I haven’t ceased trying,

Our friendship I have not forgotten.


Yet when this comforting scent arose,

My swollen heart was hence forsaken,

Woefully, the fond memories and prose,

Windy gusts of December have taken.


Pardon my eyes’ unwelcoming gaze,

My worth and pride have now awoken,

The days set your debris and dregs ablaze,

I dismiss you excused and I am not mistaken.

A voyage to the unknown

These inhabitants take their pity,

Upon slow-walkers treading to and fro,

As if the voyage was rather easy,

Too apparent a path you cannot forgo.


Yet blear-eyed as theirs agonize,

Muddled lads and lasses as we,

A hefty burden from the unwise,

Seizes our future from its glee.


I’ve survived twenty-four summers,

But, alas, with a ring-less finger,

And no child drooling under covers,

Yet, you urge my doubts to linger.


Thus, dwellers sympathize ofttimes,

As they gaze aloft toward “commoners”

Thinking they’ve assembled the signs,

Whereon the route is overt for others.


Come then, follow the steps to my sea,

Where mishaps and calamities assemble,

And no stone nor trophy husband is key,

For your path to be deemed successful.


That Irish brogue

I chased the rainbow with urgency,

Toward your wondrous pot o’ gold,

Methinks you possess a soul stunning,

Oh tantalizing gilt hail and unfold,

Sláinte, sweetheart, may you be well,

My sentiments for you deepened tenfold,

My pulse, I begged you a pint of mineral,

I fancy my silvers and thy golds to mold,

A spirit as archaic as the one you own,

Is adored plenty, ah too precious to scold,

Sigh how I singe over that Irish brogue,

I surrender to thee; I am yours to hold.