My Words

Understanding the World through words

Month: December, 2015

Well Worn In-Poem

My fedora fits like a glove,
though it maybe falling apart–
with moth bites here and there,
and the ribbon partially stained.
I love my hat and I wouldn’t trade
it for all the money in the world.

There’s nothing like a well weathered
Chapeau to frame my handsome face,
It’s not shiny and nice; but aged and
well worn in—and that makes me feel
happy like the comfort of
an ole trusted friend.

2015 in review

Thanks everyone for reading my blog!

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,000 times in 2015. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 3 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Poems In A Dream-Poem

Everyone has a vice–
No one gets off Scot-free.
Mine are fine hats and books,
and peeling off her lingerie.
Watching film noir
while everyone sleeps;
and thinking about writing
my next poem in my dreams.

A Better Version Of Myself-Poem

I want to hold your hand through the storm.
Hold your umbrella as the hail comes crashing down.
Pour you a bath and light the candles of your heart.
Pour you a glass of burgundy in a spotless crystal glass.
I want to dance with you in the middle-of-the-night,
then pick wild flowers when I’m driving by, just because–
I love your smile, and your hair looks tempting from behind.
Because, your eyes are deeper than the ocean’s waves and your
laugh lifts me up like a beautiful color-filled kite. Above my
insecurities and my many vulnerabilities. When I reach around and
touch your face, life surges through me, and the world is
meaningless when your lips touches my soul. all I can say is
thank you, you’ve made me a better version of myself.

Learning To See-Poem

I’ve returned to my childhood neighborhood.
Walking the streets again,
remembering the places
where I had my first special experiences. The place
where I held my first girlfriends hand,
it’s the area where I had my first sweet kiss.
They’re beautiful memories that come back-to-mind.

It’s sunny outside and
I’m smitten by the way the sunlight
dances off your lavender shutter doors,
I’d never seen it, even though I must
have walked this certain path hundreds of times before.

I’m older now, now I stop to notice a little bit longer,
I’m cautious with special moments, I savor
them, I’m making up for the brashness of my youth.
I didn’t have the maturity to stop and look when I was young,
to really observe the beauty of life;

But now, I notice how the sun changes your lavender shutters
to a dusty rose hue, In a split second, I stop to take-it-in,
it’s exhilarating, a special convocation of beauty
found in the simplest of things.

Now, I turn and see how a verdant
green maple leaf is slightly motioned
by the sway of wind and the leaf turns
from its original color to a beautiful cerulean blue.
Everything is in slow motion, magnificent and sublime–
in my old neighborhood
I’m learning to see one more time.

Hitler Never Cried-poem 

Hitler never cried—I thought about that today

while walking around a factory.

The thought of Hitler crying suddenly

popped into my mind and it was odd to me.


I thought about his neatly trimmed dark mustache

contrasted against his pasty white middle-aged skin.

I thought about all those naked people

lying in shallow graves.

Who would do such a thing?


The person that murders like that, cannot shed a tear.

Not out of pity, or compassion,

not while he’s laughing, and drinking Bavarian beer.


Then I thought, perhaps little Adolf,

maybe he could have shed one tear,

when his mother yanked on his tiny pink ear.

Out would roll one salty drop of fluid

from his eye down to the hardwood floor—

for punishment albeit. That’s


when I saw those puffs of smoke

like smoke signals in my mind’s eye.

I felt the shivering cold, I gazed in wonderment

at the ashes raining on corpses,

trees, rooftops, and bees.


I heard the jack boots marching

on cobblestone streets.

Black and shiny, like mirrors reflecting the

the onlookers gasps of deathly fear.


Not one tear dropped from

the strongmen marching, they had no faces,

that’s the reason they couldn’t sob.


They gave into the parade of might versus right;

to the rhythm of Wagnerian mayhem and

the beat of darkness and calamity sandwiched into one

faceless man.


If I were to write you a poem–
I would start from the top of your head and appraise you like a perfect totem.

Your hair you wear like a crown of onyx of the deepest black,
falls lovingly in contrast to your pearlescent back.

Your eyes, like diamonds that peek into the brilliant future, a
reminder of the sublime that exists–when I gaze into them I’m left tortured.

Your countenance for fear of failure, Michelangelo dared not sculpt, thus
my words I rest upon your ears with love and hope:

That one day you’d find my sentiments like a treasure that a diver dug up, at first glance being a non-consequential clam, after opening it, found the most magnificent and radiant pearl.

And I will not forget, that your heart’s benevolence surpasses the brilliance of your outward beauty; adds to the swooning I feel, as you, my most cherished gift, I stow away into the secret chamber of my heart.

December Love-poem 

There’s something enchanting about December,

It’s the holiday music,

brisk cold air, while I’m sitting by

a fireplace alone with my thoughts.


It’s also the season of despair, if you’re out of work,

like so many people out there that are begging for a chance.

Both are on the same coin that’s tossed in the air.

It depends on how it lands,

Heads—cling the crystal, there’s happiness and cheer.

Tails—I raise my voice and say, “perhaps

I’ll have better luck next year.”


I’ve been at both places, many people have.

Try to make the best of every circumstance,

live for the moment, be grateful for the good times,

embrace your loved ones, no matter where you’re at;


because, love transcends riches and poverty. Love

is the one thing that can be given freely.

Used Bookstore-Poem 

I walk into my favorite bookstore,

It’s slightly dark inside;

I take a big breath and inhale.

The scent of used books,

It takes me back to my

university days–

inside the hollowed halls

of the humanities department,

the graduate philosophy club

on the second floor

always smelled like

old books and

countless arguments.


I’m searching for a book

that will tickle my fancy,

one that will be hard to put down.

I want to be seduced by the Intro, the cover art–

I want to learn something new.

Will it be philosophy, poetics, or history?

At this point I don’t really care. I’m just grateful to be

here, browsing, picking up books by the half-dozen

and sitting down to read.


I weigh each one in my hand,

I read the prologue, a couple of pages into the book,

I want to be mentally teased.

I finally make up my mind after

a couple of hours of contemplating my thoughts.

I speak to my new book, “I’ve selected you out of

all your peers, I found you worthy to be read. Teach me

something new, help me to understand the world I live in,

if you dare, and I love you for it I swear.”


I pay the cashier, she hands me a bookmark

I say thank you and I walk out.

I head to a local coffee shop,

I have to spend some important time with my worded gift.


coffee and a new used book—

this is what life’s all about.


I’m obsessed with the former years

when men dressed appropriately and we

chose our accessories carefully.

Triple x beaver—

and a non-assuming bow.

Every man had a

grey, brown, or tan—

Even Sinatra had a slightly tilted one,

matching his ole’ blue eyes.

It accentuated a tie or dinner jacket,

It made one look great.

Used for either staying home

or a for a fancy night out on the town.


Stetson & Dobbs,

all the greats had at least one,

from Babe Ruth to Al Capone,

Haberdashery, her left arm safely

tucked into mine, as we walk happily down a

busy sidewalk in the middle of town.

The smell of fancy perfume, distilled liquor,

and lounge music permeates the air—

red lipstick, silk dresses, and crispy white shirts,

smooth conversation whispered into my ear.

Americans took pride in their appearance,

that’s what I perceive, when I buy another vintage hat,

or when I’m sitting at home in my

fedora and black cashmere scarf.

I’m breathing in the romance,

I’m sold on that time and place

when men dressed like men,

and women felt safe in the

arms of her hat wearing man.