Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category



October 7, 2010

Tell me what would make you feel better

Tearing up the floor boards to find what’s wrong

Bound to the life inside your womb.



Oh to be born into something different

Concealed by cloth and brothers

Into tired hands you will be born.



You live and walk among us

Working for the blood that’s in your veins

Morning dew rests on your feet



Tell me what you want me to say

You could run away and hide in a cave

Or give flight to your feathers and ride the sky






August 26, 2010

Through a door frame the sun seeps in, soaking the back of your body.

At the loom I sit, weaving you a scarf made of cambric.

Through each stitch the needle drowns itself in the wool.

It delights in the smell of the fabric and the feel on its cold skin.

Your father called me by phone yesterday

to tell of his daughter’s reckless wonder.

“She won’t wait for you”, he shared.

“I am content in just listening to every sound she makes” I replied

Our toes are edging the side of the building so tall.

We lick our popsicles as the parade marches by beneath us.

They march into the murky water of the bloody sea.

I don’t think I could love you any more than right now.



August 18, 2010

The sprarkle of the blue water glimmers

as the heron conceals his fish.

Nails driven through the coffin

seal her wrinkled skin.

With my brother’s horse I

pull her to the ocean.

I pull the reigns of the tethers

as the wood drags in the sand.

My father is up above watching.

Tears trickle down his calloused skin.

Sixteen years ago he showed her how to die

with the water and with the waves.

His one task remained, to blow with the wind

and give the herons flight.

Ellen flows through the channels

to meet her Alfred’s joy.


Outpouring Thoughts

July 12, 2010

This past weekend you laid your head on my shoulder as we were speeding down the busy highway. The lines and dots on the road made a rhythm to the folk music we were listening to. As your freckled forehead rested gently on my collar bone, I thought of growing old with you. This, however, was not romantic. I thought of getting Alzheimer’s and saying cross things to you. I thought of having to clean up after your accidents. The sacred act of you clipping my toenails when my back no longer allows me to reach them.

Perhaps this is not how it will be at all. I’d like to imagine the cool breeze floating through the open windows of our breakfast nook. The smell of honey and oats is sinking into our nostrils. My pinpoint collared shirt tucked firmly into my madras patterned pants. Your posture is remarkable for your age and there is a certain grace in your small aging hands.

These are the pointless thoughts that run through my broken head. I should simply breathe easy and let my mind be silent as J. Tillman sings to the rhythm of the dotted highway lines.



June 4, 2010

The bread of life is currently scattered across a paved road. Her blood was the yeast, rising in the abdomen. Her hair was the wheat, waving in the evening wind. The road was the grindstone table upon which everything was laid out, like a sacrifice or a meal. As your eyes sunk into your head, you were consumed. Consumed by the earth. Consumed by your maker.



June 2, 2010

The television emits a soft glow onto our pale skin. The blankets are matted beneath us as if our bodies were iron pressing linen. I drew the blinds 4 hours ago in an effort to keep the outside world out of our cocoon. This cocoon is safe. If I could lacerate my chest open in a lateral movement I am fairly certain wind and leaves would pour out. There is a wind of peace in this stagnant, dim lit room.


Short Story pt. 1

May 14, 2009

There was a certain peace that was resting on the room as John sat at the edge of the bed. The morning light was shining through the window, on to his chest as he thought about his life. He reached to his night stand and grabbed his pack of Camel 100s. As he sparked the paper mache, the smoke billowed out into the morning’s illumination. With each exhale, John coughed and struggled with the foreign substance in his lungs. The knuckles of his bones cracked and popped as he arose. His shuffling feet made their way to the bathroom where he readied himself for another day. The rest of his Tuesday was spent doing chores and watching television.

This is the story of John’s life. Every day that passed was no different than the previous. His skin grew more and more callous as he aged. Cracks and blisters painted his body ungracefully and he knew his life had become painfully long.

One day, as John stood in the lawn, holding a hose that was spraying water over each blade of grass, a child passed by on his bike. The boy couldn’t have been older than 7. He locked up the brakes on his Huffy and laid it down in the grass. For a moment, there was silence as the old man and the young boy stared at each other from each corner of the lawn. Piercing the silence, the boy asked “Why are you doing that?”

John Replied “The grass is thirsty, so I am giving it water”

The boy responded “Why?”
“It’s thirsty because it needs water just like us”


“Because that’s just how it is.”


John was rapidly growing annoyed. So he chose to simply remain silent. The boy looked fearless. His brown eyes were unwavering against the frail old man. “Who is your favorite baseball player?” shouted the boy. “There will be no greater player than Babe Ruth” said John boldly. Shaking his head, the boy rebutted “Manny Ramirez could kick Babe Ruth’s ass.” Smirking, John replied “Manny Ramirez does drugs, and you should watch your language.” As the afternoon progressed, the two continued to talk about baseball, video games and life in general. The laughed and cheered at each progressing discussion and felt like they had been buddies all along.

John had never experienced such a rush of emotion. He felt as if there was a new chance at interaction. That evening, he sat in his recliner with a grin on his face the size of a saucer. “Friends come in the most peculiar sizes and forms.” he thought to himself.

(to be continued…)