We fit together,

not like puzzle pieces,

not compensating for one another’s juts and grooves;

besides, we are each whole in our own rights.

Rather, we’re tiles;

we lie neatly beside each other just like we’re supposed to

with a little grout to fill any gaps,

grout that has been gingerly wiped from our faces with a careful hand,

so that together we can form a vibrant mosaic.

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the overgrown lapdog

There’s a jingling outside the window.

The overgrown lapdog rushes over, stares outside, and offers a deep, prolonged growl.

A cat on the couch nearby takes heed of the dog’s warning and moves somewhere else in the apartment to stay safe far away from the mysterious jingling.

I peer through the glass and see nothing, but I too heard that strange sound that had no business being made directly outside our second story window.

And it was probably just a trick of the wind or a dog’s collar on ground level that sounded much closer than it actually was,

but I still feel safer as the dog keeps guard near that window, steady and alert.

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coffee on table.

empty mug that rests on a coaster.

beside it sits calendar,

the top of a stack that also contains journal and notebook.

rubber band next to that,

its first purpose no longer necessary,

now awaiting a new one.

there is also speaker

and laptop

and hand writing this message

in pencil on creamy white paper

in yet another notebook.

Anyway, I hope you’re doing well.

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on growth and beauty

A tree starts young as just a seed

to grows its roots and trunk, it needs

water, air, and light from Sol,

so with a wish, I dig a hole,

and place the seed down deep inside,

cover with dirt and hopes, then I

walk away. The seed stays in the ground.

In days or weeks, it is bound

to poke its green head from the earth

soon to fill mankind with mirth

for all who gather surely know

the tree will grow and grow and grow

and one day offer fruit to eat.

They’ll taste the citrus, tart and sweet.

But interest lost–it takes too long

to germinate, grow big and strong

enough for branches to hold the fruit

the impatient one had once pursued.

Still slowly, carefully, it grows tall.

It’s remembered to have started small,

but now I barely can believe

the growth it made since I did leave

it all alone there in the soil.

The tree itself did yearn and toil

knowing that one day it could be

a beautiful flowering, fruiting tree.

So there it stands when I come back

with growing branches, hues brown and black

when it is darkened by the rain,

the wet that helped it to remain

Strong and healthy while I was gone

through all those dusks and all those dawns.

It’s not quite ready to flower yet,

But one day soon, I can bet

’cause the world has thus far taken care

of the seed I’d planted there.

So I’ll trust nature to run its course–

that beautiful self-sufficient force.

This tree right here to me has shown

that noticed or not we all have grown

and more than that, we’ll one day see

ourselves with branches flowering.

Though trees and man will surely die,

the citrus will bloom, and (maybe, just maybe) so will I.

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The Two Lovers

I still choose to write of them.

The sunrise is unviewable from this position.

The sunset, too.

Too much crowding of buildings and trees

to witness Sol complete his daily routine.

I don’t often spy Luna either,

with her choosing to cross the sky

after all the blinds have been closed.

This whole dance between star-crossed lovers

hidden from my view,

partially by my choice

and partially by my circumstance.

I don’t know why I choose to still write of them

when I can’t see them.

Maybe it’s because I know they’re still there.

Maybe it’s because I want them to be.

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Summer Lifts Her Head

on change

Summer lifts her head

revealing flushed cheeks and bruised lips.

She’s slowly falling apart to be replaced

by a much colder, duller version of herself–

her vibrant greens being replaced

by reds and oranges, the dying evidence of her fiery, passionate sparks,

but mostly by browns, evidence of the light and life

fading from her eyes.

Time says that it is long past time

to tell her goodbye,

rest well,

see you next year.

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A Full-Bodied Red

I did not.

You say that I turned city tap

into Carbernet Sauvignon

while you were drinking well water

from a dirty faucet.

I assure you that you have this story wrong.

I am not magical,

I am not gifted,

and I am not divine.

The real story is that I got drunk

on a glass of the unfiltered Adam’s ale

that was placed in the fridge

to get cold.

Maybe you’ll say that’s still too different,

that’s missing the grit

that hardens hearts.

Maybe you’re right.

But there’s still a mistake in your metaphor,

in your heavy-handed, heavy-hearted oeuvre (opus? ode?).

I am not a fountain.

I am not the Truth.

I am not justice and I am not love,

and neither are you.

But you, woman at the well,

you once offered me a drink

when you didn’t even know me.

I will forever be trying

to pay that back.

Photo by Dmitriy Ganin from Pexels


on our hurried way

We pass by



on our hurried way

to here or to there

or to everywhere.

Eyes rise and meet



then flitting back

to the ground

to gaze at the sidewalk.

Voices speak



a cautious “Hello”

to which we do not expect

a response.

Strangers at midday,

stuck inside our own minds

as we pass by

and never think

to stop.

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