The Untitled Post or The Cursed Cursor




Mocking me. Staring at me with it’s thumbs against its temples
Fingers splayed like antlers on a moose,
Tongue stuck out, nose wrinkled.
Teasing. Taunting. Telling me there’s nothing to write,
Nothing in my head.
Yet my fingers tickle the keys, pointers on the homerow.


Waiting for something to materialize through the brain fog
Like smog that sits stifling cities
The voices are talking
But it sounds like they’re under water
I’m here trying to hear
To clear the muffled sound
So I can write something you will want to read

But all the cursor does is sit on a field of white




 This is what happens when I sit and stare at white screen for too long. I’ll try again tomorrow.


My Poetry of You

old stone bridge

Photo courteous of

I never write a line
nor the stroke of my pen does start
without the tender, emotional
chords pulling at my heart.

So feel my eyes upon you
as you do the things you do,
as I draw my inspiration
from the poetry of you.

I find my poems
in your silent voice at night,
written within your whispers
wandering through my dreams.

And when you cross that old stone bridge
over the glassy still water,
and wander the wildflower meadow
you’ll find me dreaming.

For I believe in magic
That dreams come true,
I believe in the power of hope
For I believe in you.

*This was written somewhere around the time we got engaged or married. I’m not sure what “old stone bridge” I’m talking about. Perhaps it represents crossing into married life? 😀 ❤

The Frequent Flyer

Frequent Flier on the Daddy Express
Taxiing down the hallway
cleared for take-off
by the mother ship.
We’ll fly through turbulence
of giggles
Smoothing into easy skies
of smiles.
Buckled in by blankets
cradled as my carry-on
We’ve enough fuel
to last until feeding.
These wings never tire
Daddy Express is
a non-stop lover.
It goes anywhere,
anytime. Free.
Cleared for final descent
Lets make a final pass
before touchdown
into your mother’s arms.
It’s your connecting flight
Mommy Express,
going everywhere that daddy goes.

*A little something I penned sometime during Crash’s infant stage. He loved flying around the living room. Then came Bang four years later following in his brother’s contrails.