Sillage is a terrible excuse to dwell in the past.

After Last Light

A moonless night cliff-side steals the sea
from us. What was sapphire beyond churlish blue

is just howl now: waves darker than closed eyelids
wreck the rocks we also can’t see. Sunlight forgot

the two of us here. The taste of salt, an ungiven kiss
on our lips. And silence is the rush of blood

in our ears, a violent pause between your question
and what I will not say. I have no answer;

My throat is the ocean now.


*I found this original poem in my pending posts. Still not sure why I never posted it.  It’s been ruminating for two years now – perhaps it’s improved with age.

In case of Armageddon, steep 3-5 minutes.

Japanese teapot:

I was rebelling from ‘Merica and following in
the footsteps of my British ancestors faithfully.
My mind was roiling like bubbles in the kettle
and yet there I sat, sipping Earl Grey tea.

I took it black: no milk, no sugar, no honey.
It was like coffee without the bitterness
and it matched my own atmosphere, with
just a hint of attitude and restlessness.

I swallowed slowly, liquid pooling on my tongue
and slipping around like the thoughts in my head.
The teapot understood and swirled the steam my way
like Mrs. Potts comforting me over Belle instead.

The cloud boiled in the sky, gunmetal grey to charcoal
and the teacup kissed my lip softly and lingered.
The winter wind rustled though the bushes
and the leaves, like my soul, grew withered.

Red Japanese ceramic teapot.:


May I kiss you on this miserable piece of paper?

Child, Child
by Sara Teasdale

Child, child, love while you can
The voice and the eyes and the soul of a man,
Never fear though it break your heart –
Out of the wound new joy will start;
Only love proudly and gladly and well
Though love be heaven or love be hell.

Child, child, love while you may,
For life is short as a happy day;
Never fear the thing you feel –
Only by love is life made real;
Love, for the deadly sins are seven,
Only through love will you enter heaven.

Poetry is at least an elegance and, at most, a revelation.

This poem is worth 25 cents.

When I was younger, I found a book of poems at my grandparents’ garage sale with a garishly bright sticker on the front claiming that it’s monetary value was only a quarter. It was titled Love Poems by Sara Teasdale. To clarify, they weren’t all love poems.

I had never read much poetry before then, but that tiny crimson, cloth-bound book was my introduction. Teasdale is still my favorite poet. She writes with the same simple beauty that I try and put into my own poems; though if I’m being honest, she was my inspiration and probably the reason that we write similar poetry. And if I’m being even more honest, about half of my poems play off her ideas.

However, I have never tried to imitate this one in any way. Enjoy!

By: Sara Teasdale

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children’s faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit’s still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.

Family Friend Poems

Age wrinkles the body; quitting wrinkles the soul.

Don’t Quit
Author unknown

When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit —
Rest if you must, but don’t quit.

Life is strange with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a fellow turns about
when he might have won had he stuck it out.
Don’t give up though the pace seems slow —
You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than
it seems to a fair and faltering man,
Often the struggler has given up
when he might have captured the victor’s cup,
And he learned too late when night came down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out —
the silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
and you never can tell how close you are,
it may be near when it seems afar,
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit —
it’s when things seem worse that you mustn’t quit.