Beyond the Horizon

I walk along the edge,
As the waves crash with varying intensity on the shoreline.
I look out past the horizon,
I See all the loves that came before.
Each of them with their footsteps in the sand,
As the winds of time blow the trails away,
With their steps etched upon my heart,
Impervious to breeze or gale.
I carry them with me,
The ones I accepted,
And the ones I couldn’t dare to.
I carry them to you, bound up in my heart,
Because I can’t remember life before,
You entered as a work of art.

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Trashcan Poet

Waste Paper Basket

Trashcan poetry,

Words subtle and blunt

Swimming at the bottom of the wire mesh sea.

I am the consummate trashcan poet

Because nothing is ever good enough for me.

Countless books of cocktail napkin poetry,

That no one will ever see.

Sometimes though,

I’d rather be the trashcan poet,

Writing pieces of cocktail napkin inspiration,

Book after book written that binding will never see.

Each and every one written over a double shot of espresso,

And when you find them,

Even without a name,

I wrote them all,

Even if I didn’t.

Because I am them,

And they are me.

Trashcan poetry,

Words subtle and blunt

Swimming at the bottom of the wire mesh sea.

I am the consummate trashcan poet

Because nothing is ever good enough for me.

But may my words inspire you,

So that they can be set free.

Jasmine Latte

The espresso machines and grinders abruptly spring to life.

A Jasmine latte bedazzled with a floating foam heart,

It seemed like a perfect drink for reminiscence,

Like the day our eyes first met,

I was lost in your mystic pools of hazel,

As I watched your lips move slowly,

More lost and enchanted with every syllable,

Even the misshapen ones.

We both knew that sometimes,

My words would never reach your ears,

And there were times when your gestures

Would appear before a blind mind.

I entered your world as you entered mine,

Over time we communicated in the language of the intertwined.

My hand in yours, and yours in mine.

And at some point

Our bodies learned to move in the same rhythm and time.

And when our souls were not interlocked,

We still would never watch the clock.

Intermittent gratification,

But the matter what, always a feeling of complete elation.

Talking and laughing all the while,

And then I slowly seem to remember,

A forced journey of 10 years and a couple hundred miles.

The espresso machines and grinders abruptly spring to life.

A Jasmine latte bedazzled with a floating foam heart,

It seemed like a perfect drink for reminiscence,

Because now, you’re a figment of memory, of mind.

The Jasmine latte is the symbol,

And you were the meaning of the sign.

 

 

 

Echoes

Feels like yesterday.

But it feels like forever,

At the same time, there are moments when I feel like I can hardly remember.

Your face fades in and out from view,

The details of conversations past,

Scattered across time,

With only bits on the brain.

Your words of wisdom,

Now in a staccato rhythm,

Bounce, echoing in the caverns of my mind.

You would bring order to the chaos of the unit.

You always assured us that everything would be fine.

Now with physicality dissolved,

Ever on my mind,

Especially when I’m not sure that everything will be fine.

But it was an honor and a pleasure to have served with you, 

Regardless of how brief the stint ,

In this thing called life.

Clipped and Songless

Little bird, tell me

Who clipped your wings?

Who told you that you could no longer fly?

Or how the blue bird sings.

Little bird tell me,

Who implanted a burden so hard?

That One Day in Silence,

You felt you had to play the paranoia card?

Singing your own virtue, hardship, praise,

While other’s dreams,

You cast in doubt

Or fail to raise,

Caged in your own mind,

You pretend to be secure,

You only sing to shout,

So that others will demure.

You tell the younglings

To reach for the sky,

Even though you’re a tether,

So that they’ll never fly to high.

Sometimes even clipped their wings,

So they’ll forget how to fly.

Little bird, tell me

Who clipped your wings?

Who told you that you could no longer fly?

Or how the blue bird sings.