Scribbles & Marks



I am the scribbles and marks
in the margins of your memoir;
random ink, red, black, indigo
and smudged graphite, gray.
 
I am a midnight afterthought
but one worth writing,
framing the factory print,
the mundane and ordinary,
rows of the same small letters.
 
I am your thoughts never lost,
the imperfect prose a passerby’s
finger finds, curious eyes see.
 
I am an out-of-place footnote
that clarifies your biography.
 
I am part of you, your life story,
scribbled words though I’ll be.

Strangely Jasmine

 I saw her in the blueberry fields;
a Latin sylph, cerulean in moonlight,
robed in loose silk and lace,
pirouetting among the purple.
 
At first glance, she winked at me,
then a whisper, a come-here finger,
a pearly smile summoning me
to join her under Georgia's stars.
 
Beautifully reckless, barefooted,
we sprinted the hushed space,
embracing in the perfect place,
a scented circle ~ strangely jasmine.
 
Under the southern Dixie sky,
we shared a magical moment,
again in love, again imagined,
dancing a midnight lambada.