Archive for love

17/30 Come Here. (For my La Cachette)

Posted in NaPoWriMo, Poetry, Que Interesante with tags , , , , , , , , , , on 04/22/2015 by spikedaeley

I love you from your stretch marks
to your tears. From the sunlight curls
left on pillow to your ocean irises.
From the clogged shower drain

to your home from work sighs.
Sometimes, when you enter a room,
I can feel the air shift to make space
for your heartsleeve. Especially

when you are Moody Blues and hate my
calling you that, I am all crows feet and
lip stretch. Smile too wide to hide it.
I know you can see the green tea stains

my teeth wear like merit badges. I am
full of the best kind of don’t care. The
kind that says, “Come here, insecure
and confident. Here, fit throwing and

don’t want to talk about it. Here, hesitant
midnight hand requesting permission
to board my jackhammer chest, pounding
tympani roll slowly subsiding as your palm

cups frustration like a 5 year old catching
a firefly. Clumsy, trying desperately not
to crush a living nightlight. Put it in a jar,
with poked hole lid and fresh mown grass,

let it climb sticks and fall down. Let it go
before it dies so it can fly one last time. When
I say, “I can never stay mad at you” I mean,
“Come here. Let your hand be a place warmer

for your head, let my arms wrap around you
like a book cover. Read your pages to me until
we are aged and yellow torn, more dust than spine,
tossed into the ‘Free Box’ of yesterday’s library.”



Strike Gold (1/30: Unfinished and needs to be fleshed out a bit)

Posted in NaPoWriMo, Poetry with tags , , , on 04/03/2014 by spikedaeley








Mistakes were made.

Fool’s goldrushed in
for some “seek your fortune” prospecting
but planted myself at the wrong river
and panned only shiny disappointment.

Anxiety rose and tension erupted
where veins of love had been discovered.

Camp grew dangerously crowded.
It seemed like our hands were
only coming up empty.

Strengthened our resolve and endured.
Knew that we had struck gold,
just had to dig deeper. So we did.

I set up my tent in the land of artificial starlight.
Spent workdays repeating myself at rich people’s children
for a Victoria Beckham doppelganger who turned kids
into dollar signs.

Heard exactly what my voice sounds like echoing off deaf ears.

Befriended colleagues.
Somehow learned to teach
in a school without chairs.

Spent weekends digging deeper with you.
Found paydirt in the sparkle of mid-week date nights
and your first cherry blossom picnic.

In cooking clam pasta and shabu shabu in a too small kitchen
and nerding out at art museums.

In 107 days we will have mastered alchemy
and this river will change its course.

We will dive in headfirst.
Our mine will be a deep city of underground sunlight
and we will be laughing all the way to the bank.

Happy Father’s Day

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on 06/18/2012 by spikedaeley

“Doesn’t try to fill silence. Never rubbernecks itself in the mirror.
Just raises its glass to your mistakes, tractor beam in its eyes.
Offering another chocolate from Pandora’s box…”

Offered myself a generous severance package

from Paternal Anxiety Enterprises with a standard

Form-913 Motion for New Communication Paradigm.


Cloaked my feelings in obtuse language and tried

to microsurgery this strange chunk of numb in

my afternoon.  Petted the kitty and stared, edgy.


Dad makes a great beef stew, courtesy McCormick spice pack.

I bite my holier than thou organic tongue. Dab beef and

carrot with Aunt Marilyn’s homemade sourdough.  Excellent.


Love hides in these moments too, if we let it.

Some gracious greater Love that carries patience

across a tight rope of unwound eggshells.


Laws of Attraction.

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on 05/22/2012 by spikedaeley

“The mutual forces of action and reaction between two bodies are equal, opposite and collinear.”–Newton

“What you’re looking for is also looking for you”—Saul Williams

His smallest finger traces the wineglass rim
of her lips and she sings perfectly.

Wind brushes her skirt up, tickling
her smooth thigh, he blushes slightly.

Afternoon sits on the porch, brighter
than the view from a jug of sun tea.

Machines run by, fueled on the remnants
of those that have come before.

From nowhere, a solitary raindrop
materializes on her silent palm.

Two bodies in time have no knowledge
of the odds they conquered to be together.

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