The Dreamer

The Dreamer

We met in someone else’s dream,
bit players
in a dance through ever changing landscapes.
Our eyes met
when The Dreamer wasn’t looking.
I ran to you,
but The Dreamer woke
and I found myself
alone in a cold and empty room.

I searched for you
behind every stranger’s smile
the eyes were never yours.

The Dreamer slept
and I saw you through
I was a giraffe
you a dragon.
I knew you by your eyes.
We held hands by a lake
in the forest of someone else’s mind.
I leaned to kiss you
and The Dreamer woke.
I was alone in a room,
with a faint smell of perfume.

The Dreamer slept again
and you were astride my back.
My hooves plodding out a
syncopated rhythm.
You chatted with the queen
absently stroking my mane.
Then in an instant I was a falcon
perched on The Dreamer’s arm.
You were the prey.
As my talons began to sink
into your mousey flesh,
The Dreamer woke
and I was in that room
clutching a pillow,
afraid it would get away.

I search for you each day
when The Dreamer wakes.
Each night I swim with you
in an ocean lit by a spaghetti moon
and lie with you on sands
warmed by gumdrop suns.

One day I will find you
and hold you in dreams of my own.
Until then,
I pray The Dreamer never wakes.


Your Hands


Hands (Photo credit: ammgramm)

Your Hands

I want to write a poem about your hands,
but I cannot find the words to describe them.
Softer than anything I have ever felt.

As gentle as your soul.

They have held me up and held me tight
when no other could.

Still these words seem small and weak
compared to what your hands mean to me.
Your hands are beautiful, sweet, tender.
My heart aches for their touch.
I studied your hands once.
I could have held them all day,
tracing every line, every fold, every vein.

There are no words to describe what I feel,
but I stubbornly try to find them.

A Poem for Kim

A Poem for Kim

Your hair falls gently,
strand by strand from my hand
like leaves softly falling from
autumn trees.
The fragrance of it wafts to my nose
like the scent of a spring breeze
bringing hope of new life.
Your hands, soft and etched with
character, gently caress my own.
I would hold them forever if only
you would ask.
Tears soak into my shirt
as you cry for memories old and new.
I hold you tight and drink you in.
Someday I will not let go.
You allow me to look at you
as you sit next to me.
I find such beauty there.
If only you could see yourself
through my eyes.


I wrote this for a friend of mine some years ago. I don’t think she ever really knew how much I loved her. I do miss her so much, but life has other plans.

Simple Things

Butterfly and rose

Image by mgjefferies via Flickr

Simple Things

Clouds in a tear-blue sky,
the kiss of Winter’s breeze,
the crunch of Autumn leaves,
chrysanthemums in bloom.

-simple things-

Rainbows after a summer rain,
butterflies resting on a rose,
dandelion fluff in the air,
the wag of a puppies tail,

-simple things-

A warm hand on a cold cheek,
a gentle caress for tired muscles,
a sweet kiss of welcome,
the touch of a friend when you’re down.

-simple things-

Holding your hand,
kissing your cheek,
saying everything without out words,
knowing you understand.

-simple things-

My Hands Revisited

My Hands Revisited

They are small
these hands of mine.
They are man hands
(you have taught me that).
Warm, gentle,
happy to touch another.
They look healthy as I
examine them through your eyes.

They are not my
Dad’s hands,
strong and rough.
They are my hands,
warm and gentle.
I give them to you to hold,
should you need them.

-I love my hands-

Several years after writing My Hands (see previous post for that poem) I met someone that changed the way I feel about myself. She made me see things in a way I had not been able to see them before. I decided to revisit my hands and this was the result.

My Hands

My Hands

They are small,
these hands of mine.
They are man hands
(though they don’t often look the part).
Smooth, soft,
the nails are clean.
They look frail as I
examine wrinkled skin.

They are not my
Dad’s hands,
strong, rough,
grip of steel.
I felt safe in those hands,
scared of those hands.
I rarely saw those hands.

– I envy those hands –

No one fears my hands,
small, frail,

I wrote this one quite some time ago. See the next post for the follow up to My Hands.