My poems are not brilliant
They have no meter nor rhyme
My poems are not published
They are hardly worth a dime

My poems are read little
They are enjoyed even less
My poems are not witty
Slightly amusing at best

My poems are fun to write
They bring me simple pleasure
My poems are nothing, true
Yet writing is sure treasured

a sober rooftop and the city skyline

I hope to never feel this view again
twilight drifting overhead inevitable
still not enough space to hold this heartache
   not enough space to capture this silence
I saw the city collapse in mere seconds
bulldozed by a swift five words
then the silence...

                              ...the silence was an eternity
by the time I responded
  you were gone
  along with everything we ever built
only the stars and I remained
but there was nothing left to wish for
nothing
     but a stiff drink

When morning dawns
I shall gather my flower basket
And pick the white jasmine blooms
I shall stare at the cotton candy pink clouds
Racing across the morning sky
When morning dawns anew
I shall retreat to the forest
Where I shall dance in glee
I shall celebrate the dawn of a new day
The rebirth of the sun shining in the east
I shall wear dewdrops in my hair
I will embrace the sunrise
And dance in the horizon
When morning dawns once more
I shall waltz upon the vibrant hills
Arrayed in cloak of hunter green
When morning dawns tomorrow
I shall sing to the heavens
And be grateful just wake up
To another beautiful day
I will thankful just to be alive
Alive, happy, and carefree

*~Marian~

An immense cloud passed over our fraction of the sun and the rain fell heavy. It struck the streets.

This day, I was curling my toes around the filth.
My keeper screams at me.

And she-she stares at me.  Through a frown tacked to the corner of his bedroom mirror.

"You don't write, you whine, set that pen down."

He sits on the edge of this cushion, and the mice sleep in the stove.

Seventy million light years away, my eyes fly

see two spiral galaxies collide and get distorted

taking eyes off from the telescope, I turn to  your face

where the impact of the collision is on graphic display,

in many colors of fury of a love gone sour, for no reason

we still are seventy million light years apart, my smile

a dove orchid, withers in this shower of inter galactic dust.