A Love Poem.
She was brilliance, colour and strangeness wrapped in a neat package. Without speaking she points upwards to the Heavens and you strain your eyes to see translucent stars and galaxies playing amongst the secrets of the Universe. And in that fleeting moment, you realise that perhaps you have found your infinity in her. It was time to finally come home.

Walking Through Life Unused.
Remember that night we stood awkwardly in the cool night air? The half moonlight bathed the streets in a desolate hue as we clumsily tried to appear like we knew what we were doing. So we walk back in silence; both of us lost in our own individual selfish thoughts. Your gait comes off comedic as you try to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk and I nervously pick at the frayed edges of my notebook hoping you don't notice how my hands tremble each time they brush against yours.

Looking for An Ideal.
You leave impressions on everything. Like fingerprints on misted windows. You welcome each raindrop that kisses your face but ponder the purposeful aimlessness of the rain as an image of immense fragility. Your words like dappled sunlight peeking through the trees are like thoughts, planted in the heart, growing too fast. But the secrets that are kept hidden behind thoughtful yet precipitous eyes are as intense as a love affair. The silence, the raging, the zest for growing older, the abstract shadow you cast on a hot sidewalk, the air you breathe...all point to a quiet type of bravery.

Courage, Reward, Immediate Connection.
He was unsure so he looked at her more intently and it seemed like the stars burned a little brighter everytime she blinked. Her lustrous eyes held the shine of a million galaxies and when she moved she swayed to a private melody in which she danced for someone yet unknown. No one could understand why her tender brows embodied a slight worry or sadness that begged for him to stay the night and cradle her head in his lap as she fell in and out of slumber. Staring at her was like a dream, and he could spend his waking life asleep if she'd continue to be the muse of his nights.

Kitchen Poetry # 34.
It starts as a pounding heat in the depths of your tummy which radiates out to the palms of your hands. The type of heat that develops into a flame, one that burns and marks your soul with the perfect scent of another person. There it stays and lingers. And that's when you know you're ruined for life. Noone else will ever come close to being as perfect.

Shy but Tempted Young Boy.
He saw her and tried to look away. He didn't want her to know he was interested. He was resolved not to be like all the other boys who unashamedly tried everything to get her attention. Instead he acted cool like he couldn't be bothered even though she was invading his brain like the mist that descends from the mountains on a chilly morning. She was everywhere. She was like standing out in the hot sun with your eyes closed, he could feel her, heating his skin. She was everywhere.

Kitchen Poetry # 33.
Every kind of language is pleasure hidden in a paradise of seduction. Words ghost over iridescent moments as the poet becomes the object. And as the willing soul turns pleasure into a poetry to be hungrily consumed, seduction becomes the very heart of language.

Kitchen Poetry # 32.
A mystery woven into the fabric of memories and unfurled as experiences like the strangers that appear in the background of old photographs. Sleeping with the windows open and listening to the wind chimes dance in the night air. The thunder rolls, the crickets cry and somewhere in the darkness an owl keeps watch. All that's left are words to drown in. If I had to, that's how I'd describe you. So don't look at me like I have the answers. Because when the world walks out, you are the map and I keep getting lost on purpose.

A Journey with You.
I want to listen to the night rain with you. We'll sneak out when everyone's asleep. Creep through the woods and over the hill. To that spot where noone knows. I don't care if it rains all night. I just want to pick daffodils and waste wishes with you. Watch them fly to the moon and dance among the stars. Let it pour, let it rain. You can be my 'dancing barefoot in the wet grass', I'll be your 't-shirt hanging on a limb'. I want to listen to the night rain with you.

Unloved.
Strangers in the same house. Eating the same food and sharing the same air. Strangers who once remembered but now have long since forgotten what the fuss was all about. One tiny act of foolishness gives life to a seed of resentment. In time weakness turns us all to hopeless pathetic strangers.

A Diary Page In An Old Journal.
A night like this, staring down a white line and it feels like I’m not even moving. And as the headlights slice the endless sea of dark, the engine hums to the malancholy that keeps calling me home. Memories roll by with every lamp post I pass and the windshield wipers seem to beat to the rhythm of my pounding heart. The could haves and should haves punctuate every memory until there’s nothing left but a cold emptiness and a dark stretch of highway. I'm trying to forget but the poetics of space will leave an aftertaste of everything that used to be.

Kitchen Poetry # 31.
The world is littered with words unspoken; missed opportunities and and wasted chances. And in those rare and quiet moments, if you still your racing heart and really listen, you can sometimes hear what should have been spoken.

Supernova, You Are.
Sometimes you don't know why you gravitate towards certain people. It's unquantifiable, something intangible. Like the way they smile and what was once gloomy suddenly seems light and airy. Or maybe when you see their name on your phone, you can't seem to answer it fast enough. Perhaps they just fill your heart with colours that don't exist. And when they leave all you can do is trace the outline of the human figure that used to fill that void within your soul. So don't let them leave. Be the reason they wake up every morning...even if they don't know it yet.

Kitchen Poetry # 30.
There was definately a misunderstanding. So I typed down what I really meant to say, that, "I do believe in you". Now the thought hangs over my head, did you get to read what I wrote before you left?

An Ode to Country Music.
I think you're completely insane. But that's alright because personally there are not enough like you around. All you longshots and dark horse runners. You hairbrush singers and dashboard drummers. All you wild magnolias just waiting to bloom. And yes, I lifted that straight off a country song but so what? If a song says it better than I ever could, I think we should all don cowboy hats and start line dancing right here, right now. Wouldn't that be insane? But I'll bet it'll be a memory to remember and come back to on days when your heart needs a reason to smile. So come on all you free souls and firefly chasers. All you porch swingers and air guitar players. Let's put our dancing boots on and shake down the walls that around us. Thank God crazy dreams come true. And thank God for Carrie Underwood. ;)

No Matter My Inhibitions.
I knew you'd be lovely. But we're only here now, so in this moment please stay with me. Because you see, I can't get a handle on time. There are seconds which feel like forever I find myself watching the words spill like wishes from your mouth. And there may come a time when you have to tell me to leave. But right now, what we are is a thousand miles apart and swirling in a moment of dizzying stillness.

What I See In the Impossible.
For the fifth night in a row I find myself fully awake and staring at the rafters of my bedroom. There was nothing to show for the sense of tiredness I felt a couple of hours ago except for my eyes still heavy with sleep. I prop myself up on one elbow and find my cat curled up in between my legs. The predictability of my nightly routines is somewhat comforting. My curtains are drawn as they always are when I sleep and the sky is unusually bright illuminated by a spatter of stars and a silvery moon casting a blue hue over everything. It is a quiet night but it isn't silent. For silence does have a sound, the sound of stillness. Soon that moon will be gone and I rub my eyes as I marvel at the subtlety of perfection in the impermanence of time.

My Cat.
I said, "Munchi, sweetheart, I think you should make more of an effort to make friends. Not because you know the same people. Not because you do the same things. And please not because it’s convenient. Not because you both hang out at the same place or because neither of you like to eat alone. Here's the thing: you want friends who will laugh at silly things with me. Myself, I have friends I can ring at 3am when I can't sleep. Because I know what I'd do if they called me in the middle of the work day saying they're hungover from the night before and laying in a pool of their own sick. Real friends know your faults and still want to be with you. Don't make friends out of circumstance or because there wasn’t anyone else. Do you get what I'm saying here?"

My cat slow blinks and proceeds to lick her nether region with gusto. I'm thinking maybe I should make new friends.

Positive Light.
I went shopping today and bumped into an old friend from school. She's all grown up now and that slightly-on-the-heavy-side ugly duckling with thick glasses, oily skin and pimples has blossomed into a lithe, olive skinned, sashaying vision of femininity. I asked what she had done and she gave me the usual but glib answer of "sensible food and lots of exercise". But I know it takes more than that. After all, I was her shoulder to cry on when the pretty people needed someone as a verbal punching bag. After a few cups of coffee she confessed, "I may have changed on the outside, but my confidence still needs firming up. I still feel like a loser on the inside." I guess we've all been there; on the wrong side of the tracks feeling like a steaming heap of something a cow just left behind. But if we only get so many trips around the sun, remember that there's over 10 billion people in the world and every second you waste on an idiot is one second you could've spent making really good friends.

Kitchen Poetry # 29.
I think I'm addicted to you. Even when I go to sleep at night you invade my dreams like a relentless wind howling at the windowpane. You're everywhere and there's no escape.

Words That Wait to Be Heard.
The pleasure of the text is that once it's out there, it no longer belongs to the author. It's now owned by whomever reads it or in some ways, is touched by it. I suppose that now, it belongs to you. Maybe everything I have ever written and will ever write belongs to you. And I hope that you find comfort in these simple words. Because it was only ever meant for you, whoever you may be.

Just In Case.
There were dandelion wishes carried gently in the wind. I think I even saw crimson birds dance with the butterflies as the sun was split into a million rainbows reflected in their tiny wings. I kept thinking that there must be someone out there who still believes in making wishes. Someone who believed that there were things worth wishing for. Beautiful things such as those that cannot be seen or touched but instead felt within the heart. I closed my eyes as I let the smell of grass and sun kissed flowers envelope me like a friend.

Kitchen Poetry # 28.
Don't be so harsh on them. We are all secondhand treasures. Each of us bruised and battered in some way or form. We've just gotten really clever about hiding our dings and chips. In the end, we're just looking for somewhere soft to land. And you know what...living in reserve can be so exhausting. So go on and smile. Who knows, you may just brighten up someone's day.

Kitchen Poetry # 27.
After ten million years of solitude don't you want to lay your head down somewhere soft? Living in reserve can be so exhausting, I know. But if reality only exists in the human mind, come take some comfort in mine.

Indelible.
Like breath on a windowpane the people you meet leave a transparent mist on your soul. It's like that orchestra that doesn't want to be silenced. Because in the infinite spaces of your mind no one really leaves. They just lie and wait for the right time.
They're like light; it doesn't bend and it doesn't break.

Night Prowler.
You're up now and covered with a sheen of sweat which makes you shiver as the night air stirs the stillness of the room. The sky is a strange hue of dark and it's too late for this type of madness. It's more like a craving. Yes, admit it...you desire it. You crave for it. The type of craving that comes in the wee small hours and invades your dreams like the dying embers of a long lost friendship.  When you know that making that call is something you must not do. Even though every fibre of your being is aching to dial the number that tickles your fingertips. When you know nothing else will do. Maybe a glass of cold water will help? And as you round the corner of the bedroom you think you see what you need just sitting there. As if it were destiny. "Could it be?", you squeeze your eyes shut as the hot mess of tangible madness washes over you. The want in you rises like a crashing tide and you give in, not caring what will happen tomorrow. For tonight you want nothing else but this moment. You pick up the phone and bite your lip until it hurts as you wait for the only voice that can still the turbulence in your soul. There's a click, and a hello, you swallow your pride, "can I get a large Hawaiian pizza with....extra cheese...please?"

You are so young; you stand for beginnings. I would like to beg of you, dear friend, as well as I can, to have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will, gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day. Perhaps you are indeed carrying within yourself the potential to visualise, to design, and to create for yourself an utterly satisfying, joyful, and pure lifestyle. Discipline yourself to attain it, but accept that which comes to you with deep trust, and as long as it comes from your own will, from your own inner need.
- Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet.

Listen, dumbass. I’m gonna let you in on a secret that most guys don’t even have a clue about. You ready? Women love words. You need to tell her how you feel. Just say it. Say it, again. Say it differently. Learn how to say it better, learn how to sing it.
- Melissa McCall.

BlackOut Poetry #5.
As dew drops sparkle like diamonds on the grass, the morning mist descends blanketing the ground and making me dream. I see the sky burn the the colour of a subtropical twilight and beyond the horizon are mountains devastated by harsh winds which work on the nerves and leave you a trembling wreck.

Kitchen Poetry # 26.
Black velvet
is draped
across the night sky
and shimmers with studded jewels.

Kitchen Poetry # 25.
Those memories
burn it to the ground
and sear your name
across my heart
ne m'oubliez pas.

BlackOut Poetry #4.
To her, you're the spirit that lingers in a house after everyone is gone.
I'll bet you're even the nervous insomnia that keeps her up at night.

Kitchen Poetry # 24.
"What else do you need to be happy?" she asked.
"Well, we all need good friends" he answered while sipping his coffee.
"Is that it?" she says as she plays with her hair.
He looks into his coffee cup and smiles while adding, "good coffee...and, a place to call home?"

Heart Instead of My Head.
Somewhere between the giddy of wake and sleep I thought I heard you whisper that I was the poetry in every conversation you've ever had. I smiled because the things I want lose out to the one I love.

Great Satire.
Feeling useless after those embraces
rapt in a nightmare dripping in gold.
The dark is tempting like the allure of sphinxes
as a nervous insomnia keeps me in the cold.
Levels of hysteria begin to boil over
with the same gravity he becomes her obsession.
This shadow play is replaced as a new lover
take my heart and begin its castration.