Anxious thoughts like scurrying ants swarm over me,carry away scraps and crumbs of rational thought.

Thousands of insect feet keep time to the fluttering beat of my over-emotional heart.

Sugar-water tears stream down my cheeks, a map of trails for this demon ant army.

They march in formation over my face, into my eyes, my nose, my mouth, feasting on the tracks of my pain.

I cannot sleep, for the thundering battles they make in my head.


Four in the Morning


It’s the hour before the darkness fades
—the hour when silence yawns hungry,
wakes me from sleep, begs to be filled.

It’s not the witching hour, but the watching
as I gaze upon you while you sleep–
counting breaths and twitching fingers,
wondering what dreams spin in your head.

It’s the hour when words burst the dam,
spill out on the floor– the hour when I am
frantically mopping with sheets of paper
–to catch poetic lines before ink dries.

It’s the hour for conversation between
longing and regret, hope and fear.
–the fourth hour of the morning,
 and my soul refuses to let me sleep.



Waiting (a #NaPoMo #APRPAD rondeau poem)


There is nothing like the waiting —
not a feeling that can compare.
When I wake and you’re still not there
— my desire is not abating.

No, I’m not here hesitating,
but sometimes it’s hard to find air.
There is nothing like the waiting —
not a feeling that can compare.

I can’t sleep for speculating,
so, I lie awake and I stare,
at your ceiling and empty chair,
–your return anticipating.
There is nothing like the waiting.



Poetic Asides #April Poem-A-Day Challenge – PAD #12:

For today’s prompt, take on one (or both) of the following prompts:

Write a serious poem. Or…Write a silly poem.




The poetic form focus for my PAD 2016 Challenge is the Rondeau — 13 lines in 3 stanzas; rhyme scheme: ABba/abAB/abbaA (uppercase letters are refrains) Usually 8 syllables per line. For info: http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/personal-updates/help-me-rondeau-help-help-me-rondeau-another-french-poetic-form



The Way She Leaves Me


It’s 4 a.m. and she brings me coffee. She sits with me in the bed. And she says things that make the wings in my soul twitch and tremble, preparing to fly. Not away, I would never fly away from her, in the frightened uncomfortable way of wild, nervous birds. No, this is more of a soaring on pure, clean joy, at being so greatly loved and cared for.

We talk in the darkness, steam rising from our cups and honesty filling the room with wakeful heat. She is preparing to leave me for the day — it is a Monday and work is required — but I can feel her struggling with the desire to crawl back beneath the covers with me and stay. She falls silent sometimes, gazes at me like the Wolf she is, like I am the moon in her early morning sky. I am.

I watch her shoulders tense as if they were covered in bristling fur. I feel her teeth clawing at my neck and nails biting into my hip. She will leave me soon but she wants me hungry before she goes. What’s more, she wants to carry that hunger with her too. She wants to feel it in her bones all day — to know that no matter the distance between us, I ache with it just as she does.

She checks the clock again, and growls, rolling out of bed. The right thing is pulling her, and it always wins. It’s one of the things I love about her — although today, I groan, protesting loudly about it. I watch her putting clothes on her body, and wonder how she can make that process just as gut-wrenchingly sexy as taking them off.

She knows I will linger here, in her bed. I will sip the remainder of my coffee, pull her still-warm pillow tight against my body, and watch the sunrise through her window before drifting back to sleep. Oh. So. Hungry. She tucks in her shirt tail, and threads her belt into the loops on her jeans. She pulls the blankets up around my shoulders and leans in for a last kiss, then two more.

I watch her pull the bedroom door closed and then listen for the echo of her work boots on the hardwood floor. She is leaving. Twelve steps between here and the front door and every last one feels like the Grand Canyon. Still I smile in the darkness of her bedroom. I watch her headlights sweep the ceiling over my head. I know she is a hungry Wolf, and she will be back.


Taste of Four A.M. — After Leslie Bricusse / Anthony Newley, Pure Imagination (a golden shovel poem)


The morning will surely come.
Though your long night’s filled with
darkness, and insomnia, trust me.
I know the taste of four a.m. and
how it sits dry in your mouth, how you’ll
struggle to swallow it. You’ll be
watching the clock as it tick-tocks in
time with your heartbeat. — It’s just a
cadence for your thoughts, in a world
where they run wild, like a pack of
wolves — chase the moon with pure,
primal need to defy the imagination.



golden shovel – Take a line (or lines) from a poem you like. Use each word as an end word in your poem. Keep the end words in order. Credit the original poet, ie. “-after (poet)”.


For today’s prompt, write a day after poem.

For more information, check out– http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2015-november-pad-chapbook-challenge-day-1.