Finding myself

I collect parts of myself, ones that roll like coins in a silent room. These are messages hidden in some corner, perhaps under the sofa. I put them in a teacup. No cream or sugar there. And I find the flavor of me again.

Love Is

Too many exes,

just one love.

It’s real,

a tad surreal.

I suspect a plot.

Eyes tuned in,

searching for cues.

They seem amiss.

Should I give up?

Give in?

Perhaps it’s true.

Perhaps all that’s said of love is true.

I am no pretty flower.

My petals are bruised.


This feeling,

it’s in full bloom.

Nature’s startling hand.




In disbelief,

I think,

“believer I”.

Just Love

When the oceans rise,

and the skies fall.

Where the infinities meet.

An explosion of divinity.

A deafening quietness.


a trickle a time.

The sudden slowness

of love,


A beauty,

within the halo of darkness.

My toxic lover

Inside bins and closets,

I searched for a tiny bit of you.

Through burnt lips,

I waited for your kiss.

My breath had your name.

Your scent branded me.

My toxic lover.


You gave me hope,

you gave me courage.

You clouded me

in your protective spell,

gripped my hand

and promised to never let go.


You came with a price.

I paid each one.

You made me an outcast,

I thought I was a rebel.

You tired me out,

I sought more of you.

You taught me how to lie,

I figured others’ didn’t deserve the truth.


You held me,

till the I that was me,

was mine no more.

Yet something remained.

A memory perhaps,

of a woman free.


I gave you up,

you stalked my nights.

Uncertain and strength gone,

I held my lonely ground.

At last,

you got bored,

and took to another more eager still.


That day,

I befriended life.


(Written in admiration of all the people who kick their nicotine habit. As one friend of mine puts it, letting go of smoking is like giving up the love affair of your life!)





Poem for a Player

She sings an outdated number,

her dance has no rhythm,

she laughs at what the mirror says.



in her palm are lines

that speak a language

no words could convey.


If he said he loved her,

she would not understand.

The blankness in his eyes.

She does.

His gems are pretty pebbles.

They belong

to the queen of roulette.

She wears a crown

studded by winds

below the rainbow.

He uses lyrics

that would calm a lover’s heart.

She sways to the harp

of passionate innocence.

Of the sea

that quenches its thirst with the river.


He made the rules.

The game is his.

But she never enters the field.

She senses him and

she is lost to him.


in her palm are lines

that speak a language

no words could convey.


Keep her blindfolded, player,

she can see him still.


Terms of engagement

My passion is not compassion.

My love is not kind.

                             If you want comfort and your loneliness erased,

                             get a pillow and a dog.