Woke up to your sounds
some kind of growl
similar to Ginsberg’s Howl
when magic gloves were something wacky
yet
poetry still did not mean a thing
as the Beat Generation continued their song
except me and the few
that saw those portals open
unfamiliar senses and sounds
of lost loves and words so profound
our senses were alive
with the realization
of how tulips lived and died
and the beauty never lied.

Fancy that you, baby, can comprehend
how my love rides
on tulips’ waves
their intensity, purity
their unspoken poetry.
Every word erased
is replaced within my soul
sprouting spring seeds
in the middle of Fall.
The letters in your name
as magical as mine
are to you,
so strong, full of inner fame.

These words are from my pages,
pondered on ink
then let loose on thumbs
tiny screen aches
morning solitude
pre-dawn dates
taken from my cup
to yours.

My doubt is grand
but when you hold out your hand
my faith sees the stairs
to your magical door.

I believe every blessed word
tantalizing and pure.

I cross out and rewrite now
too much thinking
on a full moon night
now day
now mine & yours.

I sleep, I wake
I wake, I sleep
and there you are
smiling at my return
watching me
watch you
watching you
watch me
this perpetual need
to be as One
and cease this infantile run.

Montreal is the call
as you wrap yourself
around me
in this empty space.