Cliché 

scanning tonight
years of my poetry
my fear realized, normal
and I am;
utterly cliché.
alas,
its the chardonnay
or I’ve tricked
myself, again,
into believing
I, extraordinary.
in awe
watching the glass
fill itself,
as I fall, once again,
for Pablo Neruda,
and settle in,
knowing he understands.

Vintage Cream

image

Intimate wine stained blossom
Watercolored in his apothegm
Prized possession
A bleeding perse into vintage cream
Phenomenal waves of beauty
Style trumping plum perfection
Transfixed by her ruffled edge
Oblivious to how she sashays
The wind, her proprietor, notices
And stays amused with her all day

On Sad Days

The tears I cry
Contain your name
I miss you
No denying
In an effort to feel
I wipe my tears
You ignite me
Proving sickness
Lurking
Questioning
Why we’re alone
Magnifying
Worlds apart
Universe
You sicken me
You sense
My need
I witness
Creativity
All around
Yet offering
No, allowing
Darkness
Denying me
His smile
His mind
Alone
Searching comfort
In sweet bottled
Bottomless
Consequence
Understanding
Provides
An awakening
Creating hope
One day
Our beginning