Kitchen Poetry # 38.
I used to hear a whispered word. Reverently uttered in the quiet of the seconds that exist between minutes. And unspoken dreams dance faultlessly carried on the mist that floats down from the emerald trees that shimmer in the morning sun. Breaking through the clouds and slicing the magical twilight, for a second nature awakes and rejoices to a new song of repentance.

Unfeminine.
A bruise is nothing. They hurt for the most part but then they heal. They're like coffee rings that stain tabletops. Easily removed with a damp dish rag. A scar is something else. More like a true friend, always there, even if you don't remember quite how you got it. Most people are like bruises or fleeting moments, here today and gone tomorrow. They're like invisible ink. But a true friend, that's a scar. A permanent imprint that's left on the soul which marks you forever.

BlackOut Poetry #6.
Right now these words will lie against the hum, the ambient noise, the pressure at the back of your knees, your tongue, your mouth, the knot in your shoulders and the cool exposed places on your body. I see that my gaze is frivolously considering through blinders not the meanings but objects that sparkle and shine in the sunlight. But when night falls how shall I proceed experiencing a different world with the same two eyes? The ordinary is investigated because the living is all that can be observed. Observed through the intricacies that mark the boundaries between dark and shadows, old and new. This was the meaning I found in the blurred vision of your shoulders and torso as I grappled through the fog of my own neural pathways.

Fix Me If You Can.
The men cut me open to have a look. They thought they could heal me so they sliced me in half. Instead of organs and blood all they found was a tangled mess of misfiring wires. They poked at the loose connections but nothing seemed to work. There was nothing but broken dreams and empty hopes. They sifted through unfinished sentences scattered among a tyranny of unspoken words. They tried and tried and tried until they tired. Wiping their brows they stitched me right up again and sent me on my way. Leave this for the next one, there's nothing more we can do.

A Broken Boy.
He was the boy with matted brown hair and bright blue eyes who sat alone on that solitary bench almost every day that summer. He was picking at the guitar planted firmly in his lap and there were pieces of scribbled note paper strewn all around him. I asked what he was doing and he said he was writing a song. I asked for whom and he said, "I don't know yet but it's for when I meet the perfect girl". He was searching for that secret combination of twenty-six letters that would make her at least think of him now and then. And maybe someday even call him hers.

Kitchen Poetry # 37.
Wearing two socks to fill in the spaces. Or smoking old cigarettes in the dark of my room. Coffee too black or slightly too thick. Or a pen to paper with just enough ink. Running into old friends and opening new doors. Laughing yourself silly or just soaking it in.
But in the end . . . there's just something to be said about wearing two socks to fill in the spaces.

I Was 14 When I Knew.
You taught me to love things especially when they come by as infrequently as the twinkle you get in your eyes when you’re really happy. So here's what we'll do: we'll pack some lunch and take a walk on this perfect afternoon. You can pick out a grassy patch somewhere beneath the shade of a Mimosa tree and there we'll talk about silly things. And between the witty banter and stupid jokes we’ll fall in love all over again to the soft soundtrack of the city humming away in the near distance.