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New-Age Guitarist
We sit across from each other, you and I,
in a little café. In the outskirts of Old Port.
A new-age guitarist jerks at the strings
trying to impress us with his musicality.
Aging hands wrap around the black coffee before you
while I stir a mocha latté.
Split Second Desires
I watch the way you stare at me;
fierce brown eyes gazing taking
my every curve into your mind.
I can't help but smile
thinking of weathered hands
gliding over creamy white skin.
Religion
Religion isn’t just about God or gods.
It isn’t Sunday morning pep talks
or inhaling incense until your nose burns.
It isn’t raging river baptisms or
ceremonies to induct Goths into cults.
Twilight
The horizon is masked by vivid shades,
cerulean and violet,
together, paint on paper.
Birds twitter tucking young
into wood and red yarn nests
throughout the leaf-laden forest.
Separation by Tar
On my left birch trees wait nervously,
swaying in unison to the wind’s lonesome serenade.
Dressed to the nines in silvery white sleeves and
black shadow tuxedoes, they stand waiting for a partner
under a sparkling disco ball of moonlight.
The Canoe
You hold the pine branch up for me and I slide under, ducking reality to waste afternoons of our lives on our beach. And as for our unfledged romance, the canoe has been here for all of it, snug in the shallow water, hidden in the bullfrog’s rushes. We are the only two who knew, who dared to take it out, back when you were growing your first beard.
Dandelions in June
They come, secret little buggers.
Tiny pods a first, dark green and blending in.
They sit and wait, for each pod to push up
out of the dirt while you are unsuspecting.
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