Sometimes the poem is for the poet. Sometimes it's for someone unborn, who will seek shelter under the same willow.

It’s a cloudy, cuddle up with a book #caturday. Here’s Rubio’s favorite napping spot in the new office. Which book should I read this afternoon?

Verve A river too young for its bed sleeps in the nearby valley. It calls it freedom. We call it flood. The wind blows through the city— nothing in the desert to slap against. We call it gutsy. It calls it fun. No one wants to sing our song since we hid behind the curtains. We

Cataclysm Breathless, pyroclastic flow stills this hunger. We drink from lidless vessels, the restless spurts of a stirring fever. Besotted. A fossil of a moment that never was. Nothing lasts when touched with such ardor. No roof can hold steady beneath the scalding

Imagine having a child and being ashamed of it. Yeah, exactly. Not sure why some authors preface their book promos with “shameless self-promo (insert day of the week).” Your work is your baby. Books are labors of love. Not everyone will appreciate them, but you, at least, should

The book where the muse sleeps is down in the basement—one stair too far. It is dark down there, now that I’m here. It is dark up here too. My cat sleeps against my tailbone. His languor clashes with my wiggles. The muse demands a silence I don’t yet have. Silence is a place,

When I was a young associate at a consulting firm, my boss assumed I knew about Voodoo—because I was from the Dominican Republic, and that’s next to Haiti. I smiled and said nothing. Whether through merit or myth, her ignorance worked in my favor. I got several raises. No one

Hope has no wings, just a steady patient climb, a fragile slow stair, a prayer of feather’s strength.

There is a ripening born of coldness, a balmy palette worn with age. A yellowing engulfs the elasticity of dancing grass. This warmth in view is a warning. I advert my eyes to the faithful blue— why, the sky is always true. Pass what may beneath it, churn what may above it, it

I am soft, too soft for the world sometimes—pensive peach-pineapple pulp. My hands know this. They curl into fists, primed to attack. “Relax,” I tell them. We are safe here: cooking simple meals in this kitchen I loathe to clean, in this neighborhood unruly with children’s

The Dream of Self Does the tree feel the mountain? Does it know itself beyond the ground that holds it? Does it imagine walking— shaking loose its roots, tiptoeing downhill through the blur of night? In the meadow below, it dreams an oasis: the tree at the center, a bench for

Does your library offer Hoopla? You can borrow my poetry collection, *Palette: Love Poems and Painted Words*, for free! Want to read my other 📚 at no cost? Request them at your local library today. Happy reading!

Poetry, and other ways to sublimate life, so a loveless day may feel less harsh... Her hands on a piano, the inexorable sighs, and rain on verdant fields turned brown, rain flooding doorways and emptying eyes, rain deserting my impervious body lush with longing—

The secret is there is no secret. The sea makes waves because it’s restless. Without the storm, it would have nowhere to go. Somewhere in the mountains, a cry goes unheard, a group hug unfelt, aspens bound as one. Fell one in autumn’s blaze, the others will shiver— weeping

Don't abandon your party or your core beliefs. Reject the toxic notion that anyone who disagrees with you is evil. Must-watch video by Chase Hughes in the wake of Charlie Kirk's shocking assassination. Link to the full video:

Exhausted masses, shouting hoarse after every scorch— some cheering the blaze, others in the bruised hush of rage. Why do words sting like vinegar in the throat, but we swallow them like lager in the wastes? Why twist the gut like a soiled rag, wrung foul and dry? I see

👀

Of all the things that hold power over tired eyes, the September haze dispersing across red rock. He points toward a clearing, a vastness that is our domain— shared with sheep and lamb, torn from the feeble night. A wolf drifts, howling through the crimson sea of a blood

The final verse of my poetry book: Healing (From Everything, All the Time): ... "Justice was not the aim of this penitential limerence. Neither was love. It was the water itself, its gracious curves embracing mine, a stripping of blue in the blue. A chance to nod my head

Maroon Bells, CO. Breathtaking… #myphotos