I remember walking
down to the river
in Mystic
coffee, notebook,
pen in hand,
and I would
sit alone on benches
under streetlamps
after dark
and write poems about
the people who
cared nothing for me,
I mean
the ones who meant
the world to me,
especially the one
who told me to see.
See, he said.
But I didn’t
I never did
I still don’t
even know
what he was
talking about.

70/365 – A Poem a Day For a Year

deserving better

this morning I
promised myself
I wouldn’t write
another haiku tonight
so instead

I’ll write about your eyes –
the mystery of them
the magic of them
the eyes that
always change color
but always look the same
when they’re looking at me

maybe I’ll even
write about your hands,
your white skin
that matches mine,
the way our fingers
always find each others
and fit perfectly together.

everything about you
deserves more
than seventeen syllables.

67/365 – A Poem a Day For a Year