Bread and butter

My soul's a yeast roll
And your soul is like butter
Take my word for it

Haiku on Pain

Echo of white noise
Pain remembered is pain felt
It lives in your soul

A Tribute

This woman 

Is a woman who

Frequently turns words 

Into sunshine

Turns phrases into moonshine

That gets you drunk.

It either geeks you out

Or tears you up

And either way

You find yourself stuck

To your seat,

The room spinning,

Your mouth grinning

Your tears leaking, streaking down your face

Without your permission.

Her words are just bliss and

You find yourself

Aching for more.

This poet will leave your heart sore

Like legs after running.

Or she’ll make your soul soar 

Like a baby bird becoming something

That can finally reach the clouds.

The woman speaks nothing 

But the truth and she’ll 

Speak thoughts from your head

That you never knew you had.

She will leave you breathless, yet breathing.

She will leave you reeling

She will leave you feeling

Like nothing on this earth 

Is worth less than a thousand words.

When you and I might see black and white

This woman’s mind will take flight

And make rainbows

Out of letters and lack of punctuation.

Her words have given her a reputation.

She holds up a sign that says

These feelings are mine,

But I hope you can use them.

And if she says it, you can sure as hell see it.

She talks about

Play ground bullies and love,

She talks about growing up

And rising above

The storms that blow so many of us away.

She talks about being young.

And being gay

While living among

A homophobic family

Who struggles to see her way

Of life as acceptable.

A four time Denver Grand Slam champion

Not to mention the credit for touching a million

Young people who struggle to smuggle

Themselves into normality.

But she says to hell with normality,

And teaches what she has already learned

And preaches what she has discerned to be

Good advice.

She tells us to simply be nice.

And kind

Through the words that rhyme

Easily 

Peasily.

Abandoning the dictionary

But somehow you always know

What she means.

Like in your dreams

When you see a face

Which you don’t recognize,

But somehow you know who it is

Despite their vague looks

Her words have left the corners of her note books

And found home in the corners of our minds

In many corners of the world.

And here it finally unfurls.

This woman:

The poetry charmer

The phrase farmer

A woman with words for armor...

Andrea Gibson.

To My Togepi (A Drunken Poem)

I hear your
Smile from across the room
And turn to see
Your laughter
Spilling all over
Like markers
Easily on a white page.
Your thoughts
Are ART,
Connecting and creating
In a way that
Confuses convention
And outwits the water
Who drowns
Originality.
Original Gangster,
You are your own.
But mine, all the same.
And guess who I love.
C'est toi.

Only

If I were the sun, I would warm you.

Caress your handsome features 

With the ends of my molten fingers.

Reach, stretch toward the earth

To lick the tip of your nose

And bathe your soul in sunshine

And wish the warmth might heat your heart.
I'd make arrangements with the clouds
Who'd protect you from my blaze
And I'd miss you on those days,

But you would be the reason I rose.

If I were the wind,

I would comb your hair with cool breeze.

Lull you to sleep when you please
On our wind chime.
I would whistle and sing through the trees,
I would blow away your sorrows
And ease into tomorrow
Each morning, waking you again

With a light airy touch
As I whisper,
"Good morning, my love."

If I were the moon,

I would pull and push the tides

In whatever direction you wished to float.

In the depths of the most velvety black night,

I would illuminate your path

With a silvery glow.

And every night I would boast to the stars.

That you are mine.

But I'm only me
And all I can do
Is love you.

Future

Your love traps me here
And no future that parts us
Can ever survive

Morning

Gentle pressure, warmth
Folding blankets divide us
Good morning, my love