All These Years

Sometime in the midst of wonder

the minutes did stop.

a clock,

a setting of periodic

measure of our lives

did decidedly

become its own solitary

control group.


We were left to observe,

to see one time,

a continuum

for awhile

so serene in its mystique

we forgot a world around our

lives would remain,

waiting, anticipating

seeking some silent



Life contains a truth

a genuine reminder

holds an hour

in quiet hands of hope

those that remedy

the hurt

the confusion

all those years

we remember


hang onto with such an

anxious heart,

hold promise

to keep our soul

dressed in sweet ceremony.


Love is.


The Hours Spent

For that really is what it comes down to when we imagine our time, and how we prioritize our lives. I might spend hours thinking about someone, seldom just something, more aptly someone, and everything else in my life becomes, or remains secondary. I do love to imagine life as being an easy transition from one learning experience to another. Though I have to say, my current state of … mind, is by far the most challenging I have endured for quite some time.To realize perspective it is the fear of every aspect of my life being simply defined by some might call an irrational decision. Though then there are others whom could certainly suggest instinct plays a huge role in deciding how and why we preoccupy our lives with the notions we do in the first place.

I walked into a world I didn’t belong. I wanted to be there, without question. There is something rather enticing about being able to feel something you once believed no longer existed, and that was my reality. I was suddenly drawn to a compassion that excited me, brought me to a place I wouldn’t trade for the world. I discovered truth, a setting in which a part of me became gradually unveiled, peeling away years of doubt and disbelief and disappointment. And yet, the real truth is that as easily as I could let myself fall, the ground no longer soft became a shattering of glass, shards of which that held a certain pale upon my heart.

I’m presently in a coffee shop, a place I love to find inspiration. The beautiful people, the unique personality of life, the observer of human nature that never fails to fascinate. At the same time, I am always sitting here waiting and hoping. In fact I’ve even been confronted on such, told that I would leave myself with certain expectations that could not possibly ever reach fruition. Yet I still show up.

There have been different periods of my life where I believed I could define the ultimate meaning of the term soul-mate. Oh, wonderful relationships where we might finish each other’s sentences, where our touch appeared so symbiotic we would suddenly catch ourselves and cry with genuine laughter. Then there are those moments when it is clear there is something askew about how our lives are meant to travel. In recent months I find I am at war with myself, and more recently, it is evident I am losing the battle.

I have spent hours of my life trying to figure out who I am. Not just recent months as one might imagine, but years and years and decades of indecision. I am traveling rapidly toward my 6th one, and I am still wondering when there might be a consistent happiness in my life. I thought i had found it, in fact, the truth is I still believe I have, but that is where the truth comes into play. The truth is there are not enough hours in the day to come to terms with the realistic nature of how love works in my life and what is the true determining factor of knowing how the essence of a soul-mate works its mystique.

I am sadly convinced I am not a model of the social standard. Rather instead I have found my heart is torn and ripped and left asunder in the magic of a passion far and away beyond the norm of my existence as a human being in our society. Yes, such a wordy and perhaps confusing explanation, but fitting with the cryptic nature of an explanation for what it means to live out so many hours of my life wondering.

I wonder, I wander, I trip upon aimless struggle to find consistency in the eye of love.

On a Pattern of Dismissal

Select words,

chosen interpretation,


Moments in a sunrise,

the songs of a night sky

melodic in nature,

we could perhaps design

a medley of fortune

in listening to what it is we believe,


What is a wish

would scream

some shallow serenade

if when watching a moon

fade into distant clouds,

interferes upon the serenity

of a silent love story.


Select words,

chosen interpretation


When last we spoke

a heavy burden,

the tears would flow

creating puddles on a pavement

no longer welcome

to the notion of an embrace,

rather quiet repose.


When whilst

lives will continue

seems quite a stir

in the mind

who once in a glorious afternoon,

knew love beyond

sweet sensuality,

and instead,

spoke to the beauty

inherent in hers …

a wonder in elegance.


Select words,

chosen interpretations.

Bookstore Visits

The first time we met outside of a classroom was a bookstore – we would drive away from school knowing in a few miles we would have some time to spend together. There was one time when we ran into a fellow student from class, who gave us a knowing look and departed into the stacks. We smiled with a sort of nervous response, but this new mystique, this passion we felt suddenly took over.

I begin with this to set up the reality of our departure. A few years later, we would continue to start our nights, our days, our moments together from another familiar book store. There was more intensity. I would find her reading select classics, perhaps Anais Nin, something deeply romantic and penetrating my psyche with a fascination for her mind. She often had a different book in her hands, inspiring me to pick them up myself and read chapters, read words that spoke loudly of a certain aristocratic elegance, matching the sensuality she offered to me without conditional response. There was one time she carried Edna Vincent Millay’s poetry for a few weeks, and I became a lover of her words. Years after we parted I listened to Prudence Johnson a midwestern celebrity of folk music of sorts, create a rendition of lyric with Millay’s words. I listened with an immediate draw to my dear muse’s memory, and held her in my heart wishing she could share such magic with me, rather than the two of us being miles apart from one another’s lives.

I’m reminded of the bookstore, and our many endeavors together. For certainly a year after we parted I returned to that bookstore, hopeful we might encounter one another just once, to see each other’s eyes and realize immediately we were not mistaken.

Today, I sit near that bookstore writing these words, as a week ago, I said I never would again. So foolish is the heart, that holds the key to a soul in finding peace. I’m here every day. How could I possibly not be, in the face of love?

Words, drawn with passion and mystique, the sensual wonder of knowing there is sweet remedy in the fateful nature of a truly romantic story. Ah, the bookstore visits.

Letters, Words, Love

I love a good letter. I think the art of writing a letter with passion has always been one of my favorite activities, an outlet, an opportunity to share beauty with another. There is a certain elegance in letter writing; even the simplest correspondence with a friend, nothing romantic can be a wonderful thing I believe. However, that romantic flourish of sweet delight and a cherished response holds the truth to the wonder of words.

I remember the first time I wrote her. I was a nervous wreck. There was this sweet bond we had with each other, though we knew our time was limited, however the fortune of email was upon us. I think I asked her one day, or perhaps we had our correspondence in the class we were taking, so I penned a note to her saying hello, and wondering about her life. I wanted my words to move her, even though I knew I probably shouldn’t. I was drawn to her, and I wanted to know more. I hadn’t been able to write words like those I wrote to her that first time to anyone for years. I was married for over a decade and my spouse, though I was writing daily had no clue about how important words were to me, so when suddenly I discovered a person who might relate to my words, I took the chance.

She responded. I was smitten from the moment. I couldn’t wait to write her again, and a few days later I would hear from her. I began to expand my words and she would match the sweet romantic nature of my words with discussion, telling me about her world, the sweet beauty of listening to nature outside of her home. I had no idea her life, but I felt like I was able to sit in her backyard with her and experience the moment.

I think it was then we began to fall in love; however so much confusion engulfed our lives we didn’t know how to move forward. Yet again, we made the choice and suddenly we were in each other’s arms for the next few years, a certain magnetism that had us willing to be with one another for as long as this would last.

I reflect now on words, how it was we were able to pen our thoughts to one another, in such synchronicity we would anticipate answering one another’s deeper emotions.

These moments turned to love and began to write our story. Love has a certain affinity with words and letters.


I’m not going back. I’m not going to keep hurting myself by finding an emptiness that overwhelms my already vacant heart. I drive to my part of town, and all I think about is one of those times when your silence led me nowhere, but than you revealed you had actually driven to my coffee shop. You had made a choice to come and find me, to surprise me, you said you needed me.

So if you do, you’ll have to find me on your own, because it hurts too much to hope.

When Life Becomes Lesson


My hand trembled in a silent scrawl,

word choice

the meaning in a message,

as the pen moved,

I felt my heart open to the world around me,

turned to the eyes upon me,

a tear in my own,

then stated,

do you see how the choice of a word

might change the meaning,

how the reader

may want to know more,

or perhaps

the words suggest

the narrator really did wonder

why her life might be

reduced to a notion

beyond a simple phrase,

the added meaning,

left him quiet,

wistful, a wishful man,

wanting only

her love

as the teacher became again,

the student of his silent yearn.

Story of an Hour – Kate Chopin