Another tide

Freedom to do anything

you want

is chained to the fog

at six forty five in the morning

when the streets smell like

every foreign and familiar

smell. Hug me close

and cry after sixteen

years of absence.

I feel your loss

squeeze me tight

make death in your

eyes disappear

and help me breathe

in the cracks of your soul.

It looks like Paris stems from

your aura, and this city is

in my fourteen year old

gut. Revoke my love,

press my lies on

an ironing board

refresh me

spray your love

and essence on my skin.

No one waits for the flood

but me. Open my arms

to your tide.

Freedom

I wrote it on the beach

while staring at the ocean

but forgot to send it

deleted it somehow

and poetry faded into

the sand under my feet.

I hear what you say

but I’m nodding at the sky

it’s talking to me

so be silent.

listen. i told you to

stare and you did,

listening to the wind

and how the earth moved

with the clouds.

You breathe deeply.

she was the one

who never got

away from your thoughts

and she was the one

that reminded you

of me. no spells

required. it was

word play. tricks

that poets perform

on cue. i trust no one

but my lover

who knows every

mole on my skin.

every beach is different

yet the same,

and every man is you

and every woman

is me.

That freedom of

saying you’re mine

or I’m yours

or other lovely phrases

that confuse the horizon

are Purolator express

packages of signed poems

I sent to Pakistan, London,

Lebanon, and other exotic

places that poets meet.

Remember how we ruled

the scene with teased hair

and duMaurier cigs

no line ups, no hash tags,

no texts, no pictures?

You just wanted to

get next to me.

That was all

that mattered.

Now everything matters.

My shoes, my hair,

my fake promises.

Yet you see nothing

but what you

have always seen

and that is one

of the myriad ways

that I love you

in every song.

Shining light

i was blinded by you once, the way you twirled

my thoughts and made me crumble to my knees.

i was kissed once, when you stopped me dead

in my tracks and faced me. i have dreams

that I catch

and others long forgotten on ribbons.

you see me,

but not through me,

you feel me,

but not on me,

you understand me,

but which part?

my heart does its own sinking

and drowning.

revives. dies. quivers.

regenerates. poisons itself.

it’s my artistic way.

everyone knows. it’s not a deep

secret. tug away. pull me harder.

there’s more depth,

who knows how deep the ocean is?

these homes on different parts of our country

have their own drum beats.

each so unique to my love.

i love being this way. on the edge.

stuffing gifts in parking lots

meeting deadlines with a smile and

grace. no one can beat me in

creating priceless beauty with

art and words. i’ve touched so many

lives. and still i’m a fool.

for you.

in simple words

Some people think
writing poetry
is a waste of time,
others absorb words
like young pupils,
still others have their hat on
and
walk right past us.
It may seem like a breeze, a simple tune you hate, that may have taken days
to compose in the heat of the muse.

All these wonders,
most of Them skip tracks on life;
you do not need to hold my hand too closely, I’ve always seen it.
So perhaps it’s time to tell you
that,
I will always love you,
it may be simple to say,
but we both know
how writing this
and saying this
are polar opposites
in both worlds.

It is somehow in all these places
on earth,
we visit,
reminding us of
the one we love
no matter
which ocean
we look out from.