You are in my heart, annoyingly-
a shadow,
a remnant,
a ghost I cannot truly grasp,
a crevice nothing else will fit inside.
So I write poetry,Read More »
Category: Art
Writer’s Block
What the Window Framed
I thought it was a picture,
and I wanted to turn it into a song,
so I kept trying to look and gaze it in,Read More »
Suicidal Rain
Drops fall in unison,
roaring on the roof like
a giant’s fan sent to cool the homestead off.
Meanwhile, the beads that fell first
splash into puddles and pots,
filling rows up when all they did was fall down.
The grey has never brightened your mood,
but I guzzle water.
You don’t see its point; You want
the sun to match the marigolds,Read More »
Shoving Four Legs into the Creek Bed
Leaves fall like flowers with sharp edges on Christmas cards
that masquerade as snowflakes while I sit here,
the rush of the seat of my kitchen chair a nice distraction, prickling my hands
as the water running by pricks my feet.
My fiber seat imagines it’s the rush of the stream,
that the center tying it all together is the liquid’s bellybutton.
But honestly, it stands out-Read More »
vulnerability (A Fingertips Poem)
this paper’s my bed
this ink is my blood
these words are my heart
my heart
my heart
these lines are my efforts
these scratches my motives
these scribbles my wants hopes
erasers
crumples
this placing
rewordingRead More »
Digging
Soft, fresh, padded arms,
never tanned, never starved,
freshly powdered, swung their way
to Grandma’s House.
I knew I visited the coolest grandmother
when my tear-free washed, towel-dried arms
pressed out against cool linoleum,Read More »
On the Death of Pop Pop
Do you imagine God used his thumbs
when he formed Adam from the dust?Read More »
S.S. Sinking (Utilizing Lady Gaga’s “Paparazzi”)
Is music sex?
And is sex love?
See, I am charged; I am impassioned.
I’ve an energy, this channel.
Still, I have an age to me
you may not live to know-
I may be set ablaze, but I’m old,
at least inside my soul.
I’ve a sadness,
an emptiness,
but it isn’t that my eyes are vacant.
No, emptiness isn’t a hole; it’s a mass.
It has heaviness, and it has weight;
It has substance.
And fingernails!
It clings to the walls of my heart, just like staplesRead More »
On Hope Pt. 1
Certainly, no words remain to describe
A strip of paint could serve just as well for the first line
I’ll leave a space for anyone else to tell of the ever present
Darkness
But let them use the best cliches,
for this is the darkest night
of the year.Read More »
Alphabet Ravine 