After Rain [Poem]

The first sunshine after rain is a newborn child,

Emerging from the womb of the earth,
Tears streaming down its cheeks,
Eyes shining with rebirth.

Enshrouded in the arms of the clouds,
It peers out over the world,
All of its rays resounding.

In the reflection of miniature pools,
Cast amid the departing raindrops,
The sunshine begins to unspool.

In its own eyes, the newborn sun burns ever wild.

Photo by Ana Silva on Unsplash

Some Sort of Devil [Poem]

There is in me
some sort of devil
best left unseen

his visage shown
in moments mundane
a face profane

with eyes darkened
and the corners of his mouth turned down
in something resembling a frown

his eyes burning
his neck bends towards the sky
like a child, he screams and cries

Though he is in me
I am not beyond repair
I do solemnly swear

Healing is harder
than being broken
but something faint in me has awoken

Photo by Dave Hoefler on Unsplash


First Day of Fall [Poem]

When we open our eyes to the first day of fall,
it will be as warm as all of the days of summer
and our slumber will end the same as any other

with discarded sheets,
and curtains cast aside,
with the making of beds,
after a moment spent
lingering at bedside.

Outside, the still-green leaves rustle
in an undefinable breeze,
the sounds of commuting cars
echoing among manicured trees.

Inside, we do not know fall has come
until we chance into chilled air,
only to escape back inside,
already praying for weather more fair,

insulated by sealed doors,
hidden by tinted windows.
We rearrange wardrobes
and turn the thermostat dial
a few degrees at a time

to maintain the illusion of sameness we hold so dear,
so dear that we fear its changing, preferring to hide back under the covers,
that our slumber may end the same as any other.

Photo by Rosie Kerr on Unsplash

An Echo [Poem]

Loneliness is a deep canyon
that gives no echo.

So that no matter how loudly
you try to resound

the words catch
at the corners
of your lips

and you swallow
then back down
like half-chewed seeds

hoping that they
might grow roots
deep inside of you

and sprout daisies
from your chest cavity
like longed-for weeds

So that you can build a garden,
that does not grow

but can weather every day
that the sun’s face does not show.

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

Whenever the Wind Blows… [Poem]

If the winds of fate blow heavy,
let them not blow me far from you
or bring me to some lonesome levee
before my days have passed their due.

If the winds of fate blow softly,
as those cold winds so often do,
I will hold by your side staunchly
in moments bold or moments blue.

This may not be how it will be
but I believe it will be so.
Fate’s cold winds will blow by harshly,
but you’ll be with me even so.

My love, whatever fate may be,
Whenever the wind blows, think of me.

Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash

To Really Listen [Poem]

To speak
is my predisposition,
even in times
when I would be
better served
to pay you more mind.

I know this

and still, to change
is a process
that vexes me.
I do not know
any other way
to be.

I know this,

but there are times
when our discussions
turn to debates
and I hate realizing
how much I hate to lose
far too late.

I know this

and after each
of these times
my head starts to spin,
wishing to learn how
to be wrong
and to really listen.

Photo by Andres Herrera on Unsplash

The Illustrated Woman [Poem]

She came through my door full of history,
her cheeks polished silk smooth
by the soft erosion
of bitterly fallen teardrops
and her hands wrinkled
like the crumpled and torn first pages
of unfinished novels –
written, erased, crumpled, and tossed
in the wastebasket.

Her shoes etched
thousand mile indents,
marking my entryway with
traces of old alleyway shortcuts
and once familiar roads.
Each pace down my darkened hallway
recited episodes of the solemn journey
that first led her to the promise of warmth
behind my door.

In the dim light of the doorway,
the colorful stories etched into her skin
flickered in and out of focus.
I had to trace the outlines with my fingertips,
so that no detail would slip through the cracks.
She had chronicled all her stories in her skin,
so I tried to grasp every detail,
but so many times
I didn’t know where to begin.