Write patiently,



Syllables don’t just


from cloud

to cloud

as if Noah’s Arc

was reinventing itself–––


a rainbow proclaiming

its glory.



is slow,

when you discover it

piece by folded shirt

by flowing grass blade

to the piece of hair

falling on your cheek

pushed back by a stranger,

a smooth talker.


It’s like the wind:

how you can’t see the meaning

in words, you can only feel them.


April 29, 2014

A Wish

I will convert,

for you,

twenty seven times over

in order to spin Earth’s axis

back to it’s original


My secret haven,



cool to the touch

skin on skin

and I believe again

that I can win

when my feet are tired

two at a time


I wish it was you

holding the umbrella in the rain,

to kiss me goodnight

under some station light

I knew had flickered out



September 24, 2014



This year, I have a goal to use one of my poems to transition (at least for one night) into spoken word poetry. Here is one piece I am considering.  It is one section of a much longer work on loss, uneasiness, and hope:

Yet, the thing is.

I’ve learned that we can learn

all we want,


Yet still become

what we want to become.

A being; what we are.


Yes, I have convinced

my mind of sinless tragedies.


In my chest resides

a suddle tension

that comes with a good cry,

a nervous yelp the dog

pleades to his neighbor

and I know.


I know that it can feel

like pain

When you feel nothing at all.


Nothing, in the sense that it is


(we think)

than what we used to know.


You do feel one thing, though.

Fast-moving, rushed.

Isolated in feeling,

incomplete in understanding.


Your veins burn, sometimes.


At others they stand still.

Breath can come in,

but skatters on ridges of the throat

mountains of doubt

on it’s way out,



For what seems to be an epiphany,

or at least empathy.


We knew all along, didn’t we?

That every problem came with an answer

Every breath a song.


We’re still here.

The song is playing–



I am layered.

What is old, is still surrounding me.

What is older, is building within me.

It is in my soul, eternal.


I accept the challenges of today,

the newness of tomorrow,

and the fact that shit can come my way

And has. 


That I hold it in my body

and in my head

and in my heart

That, too, has remained safe.


It is my red-blood-filled-memory-keeper

It is my life-still-renews-daily-seeker

It is the fact

that I know there exists

a spirt in knowing we exist.


We have value

even if it is an uncertain paradigm.

I make it a certain fact,

even when it makes me nervous.


Anxiety pulling itself out

needing more

to know

if I’m

doing this right at all.


June, 2014


Let me out

of my four-legged pen

and have my eyes

come out to play–––

I’m sick of all these “rules”

and “expectations.”



A chamber only dark

horses go away to,

don’t seem to like it

yet they rest on anyway

in their own gloom.


Closed doors define

so don’t let me get away;

I am capable of freedom

I understand my mind

has crevices I do not know

and still others I do

but am unwilling to explore.


Pass up the world’s grandeur

and pure energy

for a kiss and a light beer?


One day we shall come out

of the dark,

stammering like stallions

embracing the golden swell

we know forever well,

to be light.


September 15, 2014

The Importance of Poetry in an Unpoetic World

Very well done and beyond deserving of each reblog. I’m happy to make it my first, as well!

sabrina speaks

Poetry is a very misunderstood being.  Children seemingly grow up dreading the meeting of poetry in classes, but why? Poetry has such a rich history, it should be cherish, and embraced, not feared, and pushed aside.  Anyone can learn an exponential wealth of knowledge from poetry, and it should be valued much more in the American education system.

View original post 452 more words


Fridays open up

into brighter weekends

for song birds living on the edge–––

time frays, finally letting go

of what structure we thought we had

between our bones, between our hopes

for dreams that may, one day, come true.


Fridays open into me

and the tree that still gives shade

in the fall, although the winter not at all–––

today feels frigid to me,

even with my Friday warmth.


I can only pray for peace again,

in the opening of faulted paths and fields

I can see and smell all at once,

because the sky is open–––

like my heart on Friday.


August 12, 2014



take a glimpse at my eyes



Do they sound like home?


Or are they in need of rescue,

an escape plan

falling out of place

into an enough-to-breathe

lifetime’s supply of light?



let’s hope for something true

in the midst of all this damn dark,

turn the misery of being into my beauty,


Light up my Orion

so I can see.


September 8, 2014