We play words like puzzles

Mispelling our intentions in indirect dialects

Realising that there’s very little left to say

I want to write you songs

I often write you poems, but I want to write you songs.
I want to wrap you up in verse and carry you in cadence.
These simple syllable structures do not capture your complexities;
The staccato of careful couplets cannot convey your dulcet dynamism.
An orchestra could better capture the melodic cacophony of your perfect contradictions.
You are pure symphony.

No one was ever more deserving of a song.
And I would sing to you in bird squawks and animal growls
With a shy tongue unable to properly pronounce your beauty.
Just as scribbled poems don’t quite succeed
In expressing your significance to me.

Your song is one I’ve never heard before but that’s always been in my head.
Syllables seamlessly transition into notes, losing all verbal meaning;
Encoding emotion into a refrain that only you and I could know.
In your song, I find a whole new lexicon of love.
A worthier form of art.

You are song so vivid, passionate, poignant that I could paint it.
Eyes closed in intuition
Deeply, innately, understanding your rise and fall.
Your tuneful discordance.
Majors and minors perfectly palatable to me
As I traverse your flats and sharps.

I want to write you songs.
Instead, I write you poems
Knowing that words alone, no matter how carefully arranged,
Are never quite enough.


I don’t want to write for you

I don’t want to write for you.
I want to write for me. For mine.

I don’t want to lose mine. Me.
But I’m loving becoming us. Becoming we.

I don’t want you to be my muse.
Muses are fickle things. You and I endure. 

I don’t want you to be my inspiration.
Inspiration is fleeting; once caught, lost.

I don’t want to capture you in words.
You transcend my vocabulary.  My thesaurus of thought and feeling.


I always was a poet

I always was a poet but I think that I forgot.
I’d overlooked to celebrate the rhyme in every thought.
I’d assumed that words escaped me but that just wasn’t the case;
I’d accidentally kept them captive, kept them in some quiet place.
Now I’m poeting my poe-hims, and my poe-hers, and poe-theys,
And the more I seem to poet, the more poems come my way.
Now I simply stagger, stumble, onto lines and onto verse.
Now the issue’s not the writing but that I need to learn more words.



He said he had an anecdote. I told him that was fine
But did he have a head dote and a back dote for his spine?

Did he have a foot dote? Did he have one for each toe?
And, dolefully, I asked him– what’s a dote when it’s at home?

I said I’d heard of does before as those are baby deer
And I suppose that does have necks… But a neck doe sounds queer.

I’ve also heard of antidotes but judging by his quote
This man seemed very pro-dote, so I dropped my no-dote vote.

The man ignored my questions, and swiftly left the room.
Anecdotally and totally, he didn’t seem amused.



You’re my Kodak moment
You’re the snapshot I adore
You’re the picture of perfection
You’re the one I’m reeling for.

Let me be your paparazzi
Let’s develop in the dark
Let me increase your exposure
Let me let you leave your mark.



I think that I’m a citrus fruit,
A lemon or a lime.
People say they’d like a taste, but just a hint is fine.

I’d love for once for someone to remove my outer peel
And taste my flesh, devour me,
And sate themselves with zeal.

Beneath the first enticing zest there is a bitter pith;
And even when the fruit is sweet, you can’t avoid the pips.

The problem’s not a segment, it’s the wholeness of the thing.

The problem is that once unpeeled, you can’t be peeled again.