Monthly Archives: November 2015

The Storyteller’s Muse

She has a story to go with everything
Such that it seems no day for her
Is ever ordinary
And every moment
Is an exceptional one.

I suppose I should count myself
Lucky to be amongst her great loves–
Her love of books, debate,
Drunken philosophy…

The fact that she looks nowhere else
But in my eyes
When she says, “This reminds me
Of the first time we met…”
Should tell anyone which story
She believes in the most.

Where’s Robin Hood When You Need Him?

Is it too much to hope
this brief pocket of happiness
is not something else
warped by a lense of hope?

My fear–my skeptism might be
the true poison to be blamed.
And I shudder to imagine jadedness
finally catching up to me.

Wasn’t it I who initially swore
that, for every card dealt,
I’d grin all the same–
my tell residing in a sour face?

But now my bluff has become
my own undoing.
The act becomes my reality
and my noose.