red roses grown a scent unknown and I, I prefer the prick of their thorns
Category: Poems
From poetry to short prose, a list of current creative projects
Rain
Some people think, when it rains, the world is coming to an end. Now, call me Noah, but I just don’t see things like that. After all, when it rains, your tears are more easily washed away. There’s always someone other than you who likes to play in puddles. Sometimes, though, when it rains, it […]
Sleeping Well
sleeping well, I don’t always do but when I sleep, I think of you with covers, sheets; a bed for two hold on tight and keep me true and sweetly fond – I have a clue that you would make my heart anew like each sunrise and morning dew though other worlds may be askew […]
Eulogy
on that day they tucked you away in some book closing out your story in a sad, newspaper clipping that Mom never wanted to cut out it’s a funny thing, eulogies, the way they always state the facts but never deal in the truths — ‘She leaves behinds’ — ‘he did thises and thats’ what […]
Chris and the Tree, a story of suicide
I don’t really remember it all that well. It’s sort of a hazy memory, honestly, but I remember the tree. I’ll never forget the tree. There was nothing really special about it, per se, but we just stood by it every day. It was like clockwork. The buses came every afternoon, and we all gathered […]
The Rood
I remember the old coat rack tucked in the corner and still. dark and dull, his branches hide those arms that held the coats through summer and spring – those crooked things. his wood that dug into shag carpet as an oak whose roots would dig and acquaint the sullen earth with worms who’d climb […]
Along Skara Brae
some scoundrels came along my coast like those some six thousand years before who’d come, so in I blew my Atlantic haze and mist in hopes that this, my wind, would freeze their arms and legs; and with my salty sleet, I spit. My Lord, how they run and run on a ditch they made […]
My Gregor Samsa
sometimes I think these eyes of mine, they like to lie awake and stare at no particular nothing until the very break of dawn, when I get to know my ceiling, and I call that the brooding hour, though it’s more like six or seven of ‘em. sometimes, I think these eyes of mine were […]
Baby Moses, or Nashville
her green eyes closed – a mother not to be in her Nashville kitchenette in 1983 wept above her barren stove whose door was broken, like the lampshade, the T.V., and everything else, not enough for babies. a once full, warm belly now empty with her chest ached for food, or for something. “he’s been […]
