There is something left in broken fragments

on the tongue within the sweetness a sour taste

lingering amid residual flavors-

A puzzle’s piece lost in the shuffling and haste

of drunken early mornings and late nights

when gulping every bit like sweetest wine.

But how thirsty I remained after all

was consumed, waking up all alone

from a fuddled life as I stumble and fall,

and then shattered I’m left with the aftertaste

of the broken fragments-






In caged freedom I wish to touch above the sky

but arms while strong will not suffice

and didn’t teach my wings to fly-

A cage of gold becomes the life I ever known

and seems so far as ever flown

was in my dreams,

but real they seemed

with strongest wings I flew so far

that when I reached to touch the sky,

I touched a star-


“Reach high, for stars lie hidden in your soul. Dream deep, for every dream precedes the goal.”

– Pamela Vaull Starr





How can ever fix what sometimes is broken

changing what I see to satisfy my ego?

You are who you are,

nature took its way, happiness a token

for a few reserved

but we all deserved-

Easier to accept there is no single road

and everyone must choose

one that’s near or far

sometimes leaving scars,

mines just didn’t show

for the longest time-

How can I then fix what may not be broken

but misguided views

of how life should be?

I am who I am with my imperfections

nothing left out broken,

nothing new to fix

but my own perceptions-


“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

― Oscar Wilde

I May Not Be


I May Not Be


I may not be a gardener for I have not a garden

but a lot sometimes arid with a shortage of rain

and no flowers to bloom in the spring of my life

but the dry crawling weeds of the leftover pain.


I may not be a healer if my wounds remain open

don’t know how to appease my own restless soul

while I count all my years with the passing of days

letting memories haunt me as I get lone and old.


I may not be a lover when I’m missing such love

that in wishes is drowning in a glass of red wine

and in verses my dreams I can hide within words

with nobody to claim me or no one to call mine.


I may not be a poet when I’m lacking the prowess

transforming emotions if the muse sometimes call

and when try to remember all the things that I was

I could sadly consider I may be none at all-


“We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.”
― John Hughes, The Breakfast Club

Love, Love Not



Love, Love Not


What if I don’t choose to love again?

stacking memories of love with memories of loss

bittersweet cravings adrift in my distractions.

It is not that I lost my desires or attractions

nor the muse that inspires my pen

but my options run wild in this game

and sometimes it is easier alone-

Nature is long past, I’m already done

with my disillusion,

everything exhausted , nothing else to claim

if only a resolution

not to love again-


“We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and—in spite of True Romance magazines—we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely—at least, not all the time—but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.”

― Hunter S. Thompson, The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967





Such fear that I’m late-

I woke up too late from a long spun dream

on butterfly wings that later flew away

and I fear I’m late.

Life just passed me by and never said goodbye

so I never knew I would wake up late

‘til I heard the flap when the wings collapsed

on my butterfly, and my dreams just died,

as I woke up late-


“Don’t you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you’re not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you’ve lived nearly half the time you have to live already?”

― Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises





It is sad how life changes, emotions dwindle

as the light of passion with the years subside-

And I try to hold on, something must be worth

to keep tucked away when it’s cold outside

and loneliness grabs on, something left to spindle

in the everyday that was left from life-

Moving on it’s easier if there’s a place to go

and fresh ground to sow seeds we never scattered,

hoping maybe passion finds a place to rise

and in late Spring blooming our dreams left shattered

into something new may then sprout and grow.



“Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.”

― Robert Louis Stevenson