Half Way

So here you are

on this broken ground,

and you don’t know

which way to turn–

questions upon flower beds

upon your neighbor’s half

opened picket gate that is,

perhaps, meant to be half-way–

perhaps this is the way.

Sink into the ground, feet firm,

and know your presence,

pen and patience as your guide,

miracles blossoming in a moment

and more than anything we are

brothers within our deepest fears,

our fondest loves, the passion

that remains ready, hunched up

inside us all, asking

to call out, “I am ready.”

July 20, 2014

My Generation

What if naive, every-day stories aren’t the most relatable?


What if we are meant to go off the beaten path,

beat the shadows, the moon, the sheets?


What if calling for yourself to come out in twilight

is like searching for a piece

when you should have already found the puzzle?


What if my generation unfollowed me,

passed me up for a cheap beer

and some Buzzfeed on the side?


What if I am as guilty as the next

for my wandering mind, childish antics, pressing time?


What if we must find ourselves first

in another to form the puzzle, the title, the peace?


July 15, 2014


And then–

it approaches

like a child at ten,

his years ahead

like unspooled thread,

unfolding flowers

rising from the socket

of wise ground, patted down.

White melts,

green blades peak,

and faces press their noses

to cold windows

for their last winter breath,

circles forming on the glass

with no fog left to gain,

only eyes to the trees above,

approaching the season

they like most,

in rebirth.

April 22, 2014

Let Me Write A Poem

If not a love song, let me write a poem

For now under nightly stars,

Their shine flowing out

Of my dark-tipped pen

Onto the empty page.

The moon will shape notes

Onto paper until I can hum along,

Ride the coach my horses draw,

Paint the portraits lovers saw

Together, in silence.

I shall remain content

In my lonely-letter looks;

I shall keep my ink bleeding

And carry my heart to the next suitor.

April 18, 2014

A Minute of Nothing

“Slow down,

my brother,”

a passerby called out,

over his shoulder.

“Why are you

always wondering

about nothing

of importance,

nothing of now,

the silence,

the stillness?”



It was then–

I felt it.


The wind swipe past

my cheek;

The bird call for the leaf,


into the nest of a cloudy-eyed



The motion of thoughts

over water,

over air,

under skin.


Within me,

the tree,

the plane,

the ant

rolling from its workhouse

to playpen,

to its bottom-of-shoe fate.


I felt the impossibility

of nothing

and the peace

of nothing

and the endlessness

of some other nothing

that is, in fact,




If only we all could slow,



June 25, 2014

Circles of My Mind

Pages fill

with words and time,

packed evenly

onto one, blank canvas.


To be

or not to be–

it’s always the question

at hand and at heart.


With a sky full of lies

who knows what shape

that cloud should fill?


All I know is that

I keep chasing and chasing,

round in circles of my mind

trying to find that sun.


So in the clouds of my eye

I open wide,

let words spill

until I’m desert dry.


Now pleading to those

same clouds for rain,

rain to wash this mess away–

and invite my thoughts to follow.


March 18, 2012