The Right Poem

When the right poem is born it is all feeling. Taste and touch and nourishment. All heart and aching and lifting. Poetry is a revolution with a profound sense of strength. When the right poem arrives I notice it instantly. It is all moving like earthquakes so powerful that it breaks down mental barriers and knocks ignorance off Richer Scales. The right poem is not merely the ability to paint pictures with words. The right poem is a full manifestation of the heart. A complete contextualizing of the soul. The right poem is my entire body into words. Every piece of flesh, every tingling nerve. A spiritual essence poured out on the page.

Hope Like Water

I must admit

I don’t know much about you

The first ocean in which I’ve ever swam

You were there in my mother’s womb

And every other home in which I’ve ever lived

I drink you

And you consume me

I cook with you

From pieces of your soul

I feed my children

And we bathe in your arms

Watching as you carry us



Yet nurturing

I know not what you are

Not exactly

I think you’re spiritual

Because you left your DNA in my skin

Your truth dripping as it clung onto my bones

Like breath of life escaping my lips

A misty cloud

A forehead kiss

Or a mother’s smile

And the world is yours to conquer

When she winks her eye

And you know you got this

You’re there to fulfill all our needs

A spiritual fluid

That man has not fully understood

Like heaven right here on Earth


In the desert

If I could bottle hope

I imagine it’ll look something like you

If I could taste on my lips expectation

I imagine paradise would taste

Something like you

If truth could be wrapped up in one word

If hope could manifest itself

So we know what it looks like

I’d sum it up using one word

The only word with the power to both nourish

and destroy

To hurricane wrath

And to quench thirst

If I could touch the substance

of this expectation

I imagine it is hope



That Moment

Writing Services_10

That moment when the inspiration is so thick but the words are so weak. When time won’t give room to whisper a glint of poetry or finger your way through lines made of braille.  I want to write, but not anything. So I wait for the calming of thought processes to slow the string of melodies into a post of beauty. Nothing rushed and spilled like left over knowledge and conscientious stupidity. Not the same ole same ole thirst for the vanity of wisdom. No, not anything. Not the mouthing off of regurgitated ignorance. Surely every thought is not worthy of the blank page. The new post is after all too pure for any thought to brush upon it. Though the pull to build on the creativity that found its way inside your space must fulfill itself. I am indeed in the midst of that moment. I desire to write something, but not anything. I want to beautify the whiteness of this page into something stronger than the color of poetry. Something that seeps into your mind and rushes to the center of your soul like the longing of fire to touch wood; a stream of living water waiting to fall for the first cup it sees standing; the longing of lips desperate and trembling for the first kiss it sees wanting. Indeed, maybe I’ll just kiss my way into this post. Give you something of value to take home. Take with you my beloved. And let me give you more than just a penny for my thoughts.