Silent Confession

I woke up
with inspiration
wedged within,
like splinter beneath nail-bed,
bleeding for liberation.

Woke up
in veneration
that today?
Would not be a subtle iteration
of yesteryear.

I could’ve sworn
this morn would be the day.
The day that
chisel was introduced to stone,
ink encountered papyrus,
quills quenched thirst
in parchment papers,
pens made amends
with 8.5 by 11’s,
stylus would
script to screen,
voice would dictate
and Siri would scribe something monument!
Something golden,
something platinum,
something molten!
Something so fire,
firefighters would
standby to admire this
as a dire cause to retire.

SOMETHING!

Anything…

Lifetimes later,
the ghost of you has haunted
more than my heart from loving.

You were more
than a fleeting muse,
more than a mere distraction,
more than mortal tongue can fuse
futile words into a fraction
of what you meant to me.

What,
did you mean to me?
The question
your absence answers better
than I can conjure a response.

The easier humanity
made it for us to communicate,
the harder it was for me to tell you:

You are my sunshine,
my only sunshine.
You make me happy,
when skies are gray...”

The Right of Way

Just in case
my tongue speaks in thunder
and my words
fall harsh like hail.

Just in case
my consonants
seem constant in
constraining your confidence.

Just in case
my vowels seem self endowed
to foul the respect
unannounced in yours.

Accept my umbrella of apologies
until these lips I’ve learned to scale.
Forgive me,
for pillaging the sacred
in your thoughts,
the sacrament
upon your lips,
the wisdom in your words.

I’ll improve upon silence.
Compose an opus
to open the forest of my pride,
where its roots run deep
and branches reach
just as wide.

Be the first to admit
that if a man
thinks to interrupt
the flux of a woman’s thoughts
in her absence that he’s
still wrong.

So speak what’s on your mind
and I’ll mind what I speak.
They say that conversation
is a two way street,
and I’m sitting at a red light.
I believe,
the right of way
is yours.

His Eye is On The Sparrow

When you discover
that every tear shed
will not purge you
of his memories;
that every fallen drop
isn’t equivalent
to the distance
he falls away from you;
that your
rain-forest eyes won’t reset
to detect a love
better felt than seen.

When you unearth the value
in your coarsest traits,
disassociate his appraisal of you
with his attention.
Your self-worth
has always been
independent
of his last name.

When you realize
your loyalty,
your commitment,
your efforts to
“stay the course”
while he detours
to another’s arms were all
to strengthen your knees
to kneel amidst the rocks
and find God
in the hardest of places.

When you realize
that every sip
of his rejection
is followed by the aftertaste
of finding yourself,
it’ll still taste bitter,
you’ll still want to chase it
with a gallon of whys.

It still won’t make you feel
any less used,
your time
no less wasted,
your love
no less abused.

But you
will love yourself better.
You’ll discover
that tears can indeed be for joy.
You’ll unearth
the precious,
the beautiful,
the richest
of jewels in you.

Most importantly,
you’ll flourish in his absence
when you’re alone
in His presence,
for His eyes
are always
on the sparrow.

Let it Be Known

Let it be known,
that this woman 
is probably out of my league. 
She’s probably laid siege 
to many a hearts, 
probably parted 
many apart 
completely 
unintentionally.

But her gaze 
is vacuum potent; 
pupils:
black holes soaked in 
irresistible;
irises, 
cause cataclysmic shifts 
of your peripheral vision;
clairvoyance 
wouldn’t have seen this coming.

Let it be known, 
she’s hurricane, 
tornado, 
waterspout,
dirt devil. 
She’s whirlwind, 
a cold spin
contorted 
and unsettled.

I may be misjudging
her super powers,
potentially hyperbolized 
her silent eyes but, 
she’s wowed me in ways 
I’d still be honest 
to exaggerate.

Let it be known, 
she’s all 
and none of these things. 
Truth be told she’s 
very much human,
with a mouth, 
and a nose, 
eyebrows 
and earlobes;
but her heart 
has chosen to part with mine.

Quite possibly, 
unintentionally 
she fancies me. 
She’s laid siege 
to my soul so, 
let it be known 
that I’ve never been known 
to let it be but 
I surrender, 
completely.

Genuine

When I first confessed to you 
that I wrote poems, 
you asked me 
to recite one.

My untied, 
string of thoughts
tripped over themselves.
My tongue 
was just as much of a klutz
with whatever verbiage 
it managed to spill over you
as my pulse, 
fluttered up 
the tunnel of my throat
to convince me 
to just wing it.

Self-conscious 
and bashful 
was the man I grew into 
and you –
could you not wait 
in such dire suspense?
Can you not stare 
with such intent?

You are, 
by no means
relieving the pressure
with those eyes. 
Those
bold and beautiful irises, 
hugging your pupils 
like arms do orphans, 
framed in frameless lenses
ordained to maim my senses 
into shock and awe.

You 
are so utterly Kodak friendly, 
my brain 
keeps my eyelids shutter speed 
to non-existent just 
to take in your beauty 
in every blinking moment. 
I can’t help but keep 
my aperture open.

I guess,
what I’m trying to say is:
give me something to write about. 
I want to paint you 
by the number 
of childhood memories 
and fears you still think 
hide in your closet, 
your darkest corners, 
before the world 
ignited your monsters 
and revealed them to be 
more human than not.

Tell me, 
what drives you 
and then
what drives you crazy. 
I’ll get licensed for both
to help you steer.

Share the ingredients 
to your passions
and we’ll have a 
seasoned conversation for dinner, 
an entree of flavors 
I desire to savor with you.

Show me 
your insecurities, 
your impregnable doubts
and castle of failures 
and I promise, 
to build you a bridge 
over your moat of depression
and discouragement.

When you first asked me 
to recite you a poem, 
it’s not that I didn’t hear you 
the first time, 
nothing drowned out your request. 
It’s just that, 
no poem 
could ever reconstruct 
the genuine 
in your smile.

Yours

Don’t move.
Stay under the covers.
If there ever
was a day to be lovers,
let’s commence with this morning
with my arms
as your sheets,
my chest,
your pillow.

Motionless in silence
give my hands guidance
and twine them within yours.
Fold gently towards ceiling,
point through roof,
through clouds,
through sky
in thankfulness
to Him who brought us nigh.

Let love
make her bed between us,
and we’ll fill in the gaps
with something more
than our bodies meshed
flesh to flesh.

Let your mind rest
in the solace of the moment.
As we lie abreast
let us connect
like ocean to ocean.
Seamless in unity,
take this dance with me.

I won’t promise you the moon,
won’t promise you tomorrow,
but in the borrowed time we have
I promise to love you
in the now
’til kingdom come
and His will be done in us.

I promise to be
your haven
away from heaven,
your love
amongst the loveless,
I promise
to be yours.

Our Future Selves

A year from today, 
we’ll break up 
into the current of another lover’s love,
their stream of thoughts  
we probably aren’t worthy of,
the construct of which 
will leave us itching 
at our stitches of disunity.

Searching for impunity 
in his hugs,
her kisses,
his gentle tugs,
her patient spirit.

He won’t understand you, 
she’ll grow indifferent to me;
he’ll remain faithful to you, 
and she will discover 
why I’m her favorite dose of love 
yet the worst type of lover.

You’ll see my smile 
fade in his laughter, 
I’ll witness your tears
fall onto the pages of her chapter.

A year from then
we’ll still be guilty of stealing 
enough of each other’s lives;
our partners 
will question our suspicions.

The honesty in his motives 
will not get you to confess, 
her imploring 
will feel like a needle 
for a spinal tap, 
my response 
will be paralytic silence.

They’ll both tell us, 
we’re perfect for each other. 
He’ll be rocking 
a version of my stubbornness 
over his shoulder, 
she’ll be tucking in 
your dimples in another room 
and after slumber sets 
in its infancy, 
they will both question:
“So, where do we go from here?”