We’ve expired 
With smeared ink
A reminder
To make me think
Our life finite 
In a wink

Lifting tea
Pen in hand
A writer’s pose
You expressed
Dislike of prose
Dislike at best

Halting words 
From fine print
Spun inside
My eyes squint
Left unsigned
The paper rot
An intertwined
Twisted plot

I wanted to retract
I wanted to hide
The deed lay stacked
Like groom and bride 

Bleeding on a page
You dislike prose
A treasure cage
From which my hand flows

Word mined  jewels
To hasten your feet
Twin swollen soles
Took to the street

My spools strayed
You descended steps
A heart retrograde 
Where our words wept 

Revels of dismay
An abacus clone
Counting the days
Of numbers unknown

It’s what you now chose
Leaving me alone
With your dislike
Of my pretty prose


They were just 
words I read
But these words 
they coiled
 around my brain 
and strangled my heart
 They were his words. 
I imagined
 his mind at work
 tap tap tapping the words
 into print
 making them viable 
and breathing on a page
 They crept like
 ivy in my eyes
exploding on each line
 decoding his breath
 I imagined those words
 were for me
 The pauses
 between the breath
 the beat of his heart
 the intent of his spirit
 all in tiny letters 
that baited me 
into a seduction
 of which he knew not 
the impact
 The author sat
Tapping words
They crept like
Ivy in my eyes
They danced
Inside my thoughts
The words 
Were his
I was not.

Inside Margins

The poetess wrote wrong lines
Twenty streets to search for signs

She should have begun over again
She should have not retired pen

Aroma of ink and power in hand
Forcing fingers fires planned

Into type and written styles
On the page complete with smiles

The poetess penned a poem
Spying stanzas from her home

Twenty avenues explored
While little clues leaked and scored

Spilling Sea and all her thoughts
On the page by which it plots

She should have kept herself pure
She should have not kept the score

Sifting words in search of gold
Inside margins where eyes rolled
The poetess scribed shame by grace
Twenty hints left in her place

Confetti of Two Lives

You became my everything…is that not what nourishes the depleted soul in our unenviable state of humanity? I was starving for you. Once injected into my psyche, and the addict was born; each dose brought me close…to being spun on a spool…endless tangles, where words duel; such hope each strand holds of conjoining, being so much more than a solo strand..
Your eyes, the reflections of a brilliant Earth, those lovely mirrors, caves for tears, you claimed damage to the dam, damn me it was my fault, the shutters leaked, a time or two with my doings, with my words – I cherish as friends, I betrayed them into congregating as an army, in lines across a page, we marched into your mind, army of unkind. 
My words, I used them for ego and pride, they helped to bring birth to that which has died. 
When the writer removes her sword from sheath, to sickle all beneath, unto paper, made confetti of two lives. If words were sutures, I would sew the scar closed, my love. I would seal it with a kiss. I would weave us together, and never fray, under the guise of my words, forever this day.  


If I could create you as an object, it would be fashioned of marble. Cold and stoic. Heavy and immovable. Your eyes would be carved of stone and staring into the distance; no matter which angle I stood, they would not meet mine. I would caress your crevices and feel the cold emanating from your smooth skin, in a desperate attempt to warm your core. I would fail in this epic tale. I would wind my fingers round yours and you would refuse to mold with mine. I would break a piece of you off, to show my dismay, and tell you, telepathically, I am taking you with me; in your silent protest, you would be my hostage, made of stone.
 I would tuck you in my pocket for the day, and take the piece of you out, and feel the jagged ends, on which you broke off, and feel the sadness of knowing, you are with me, only through thievery.
 I would put you in my purse, and in the coming weeks and months, feel you at the bottom, among loose coins and chewing gum, scratching my fingers, reminding me, you are with me still, in the stillness of a stolen stone, and you could feel my sadness, of being your hostage.