Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for July, 2014

Green Eyes

A pretty girl reading
beneath the shade of a wise, old tree

looks up from the page
to smile through my phantom figure,

her blue eyes on the boy
standing just two feet away from me.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

Detached

You’re out of my arms,
but still inside my head.
I woke up to discover
you weren’t in our bed.

The pillow was still warm,
and the covers were, too.
It hadn’t been very long,
but the feeling wasn’t new.

The last several months
you’d appeared to me a ghost.
I was talking to myself,
hoping for what I needed most.

It was far from a surprise,
but the sting won’t go away.
Both of us wore a disguise,
avoiding what we had to say.

Read Full Post »

You’re Chosen

Your hands are warm,
though your heart is frozen.
At times life is hard,
but remember you’re chosen.

Read Full Post »

System

I used to wander
aimlessly.
But not anymore.

I, for a time,
focused on rejection.
No longer.

I once built foundations
based on flimsy plans.
Never again.

Who the fuck are you
that I allowed myself to cry
even a single tear
over those feelings unreturned?

Who the fuck is she
that I wasted hours of my life
beating a dead horse
with the hope it would gallop?

And who the fuck is he
that I should be compelled to give in
to childish jealousy
when I’m happy, so perfectly content?

I used to wander aimlessly.
Now I realize
my purpose.

I, for a time, focused on rejection.
Now I notice and appreciate
all of the acceptance surrounding me.

I once built foundations based on flimsy plans.
Now I look to the heavens,
knowing I can’t do it by myself.

Who the fuck are you?
Who the fuck is she?
Who the fuck is he?

I am what I’ve been influenced by.
But much more than that,
I am a complex system defined by
decisions, words, actions.

Who the fuck are you?

Read Full Post »

Milestone

I don’t know if it has ever been said
that a poet’s first thousand poems are garbage,
but if it has, then I’m happy to have crossed that threshold,
to have finally climbed the hill and appreciated the view,
exchanging the colored pencil of juvenilia
for the fountain pen of a respectable writer.

From this day forward my poetry
will no longer be tempted to cry over spilled milk,
won’t be a cup brimming with the tears of my youth,
or a cloud gorged with rain, for that matter.

Gone will be the tired clich├ęs and uninspired lines
that were born simply out of a rush to do something else.
And melting are the icy words resting in my palm,
leaving a refreshing drink for us to enjoy beneath the sun.

Instead the poems will have a polished look about them,
as if they’ve perhaps just graduated from university
with a degree in creative writing, having paid no mind
to the advice of others to major in business or law.

Their names will be more like clues than answers,
and even when pressed they’ll keep a secret
for longer than five minutes, politely requesting
your presence at their condo some evening
for lively conversation over wine and cheese.

Yes, tomorrow I’ll wake up to find I’ve lost
all desire to jot down my thoughts and call it good.
Tomorrow I’ll approach that dark, narrow tunnel,
with flashlight in hand, and begin to crawl toward
the afterlife, both physically and metaphorically.

Read Full Post »

I haunt these drafty halls each night,
creeping through pockets of time.
It might be wrong, it might be right,
but I always end in fragile rhyme.

Read Full Post »

Stacked Odds

blank cards
lost in “the shuffle”
stacked deck

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »