Your Story

Tell me something I don’t know…

the charisma that

defines and expresses

the things you leave behind

that no one else has known.

Share your story right now:

the joys,

the sadness,

the in-between,

which molded you

into this spectacular current chapter

of your memoir

that now includes me.

Let me touch each syllable

in your words

as I trace your lips to find their truth.

Shower me with your adjectives

and enrich me in the beauty

that you have witnessed.

Grab me with your verbs

making me delirious with excitement

for the things that have

taken you here and there.

Carry me with your nouns

to all those places I’ve never visited

and let me see them through your eyes.

Let me enter

into you

to finally become us

in this grand experience,

this guided journey,

full of interconnected stories

with sentences and paragraphs;

questions, exclamations, and periods;

indentations, spaces, and pauses.

Allow our humanness

to unfold,


marvel, and share

without ever having to worry

that you are alone in this exposition.

Let this composition end

with the knowing

that the Divine has been

the narrator of your saga

and all that you are

has been a plan to teach you

that love is all we need to

gather in this adventure of life.

The Connection

Words are uttered onto a page

like waves gently sliding into shore –

this is my terrain

allowing the flow of emotions without hesitation.

Injunction, introduction, information and imitation

of all that lies within

through cautiousness and clarity

while consenting to the beauty of each sound

and sketching it neatly

on the script.

Sleek and slender symmetry of lines

crossing in and out

while a cursor leads the way

confessing a truth to who I am.

With each character drawn onto the page

syllables flow into a conjunction of rhythm

parading into adjectives, nouns, verbs and such.

And, then magic happens as a connection

between the word and the reader

become one

through eloquence of language

manipulated with effortless control

while letters dance around to create

one sentence,


and then…an end

to a story that now engages


and me

for just a little while.

In a Name

Tell me your real name,

you staring back

through the windows of my soul.

Mother was heavily sedated

when she labeled you,

but here we are

living up to the antiquities

of a foreign noun

collecting adjectives

every day

from those who meet us,

know us,

and sometimes never like us.

What do you want to be called

in avoidance of the perception

a parent insanely applied …

for who is Mildred America?

She won’t live up to those nouns


than sweet names

that linger inside the tongue,

sliding off to make pretty sounds

with simple syllables.

Mildred America…

what was she thinking,

or did she not think at all?

How does one live to the reverence

of such hard sounds

that hide within initials of truth.

When I place my Millie A.

no one imagines a continent sits

within the first and last name

waiting to be explored.

So tell me,

you there, in the mirror,

what would you like to be called today

besides “Lovable,”



or “Friend?”

Be My Poem

Let your spirit fill me
with delicate expressions,
dictating a romantic ballad,
holding on to adjectives
slipping from your tongue
in sweet rhythm
cascading                        into my ears
as water folding over us.
Let your hands hold
verbs and nouns,
us as pronouns,
beginning and ending
tracing each line and space
of my body
cautiously                      placing
each moment into silhouettes of        p a u s e s
and shading the imagination

with tension, intervals, and length.

Be my melody,
reciting a sonnet,        haiku,          free verse
the final closure,
an exclamation to end all words