Wednesday, December 12, 2012


Clouds loom, grey room
open blinds, noisy box.

Dust flutters, dog barks
empty house, open heart.

Day is calm, quiet, grey -
painted in an open frame.

And I draw outside the lines,
Subject in the sill of time.

Monday, December 10, 2012

Thoughts @ 1:47am

My goal as a writer would be this: I'd like to write stories unrestrained by and outside of my ego. I don't even know if that's possible. I'm not even quite sure how big my ego is. I imagine that it's like the tip of an iceberg, where I'd think to myself "Well, it's not that bad" but then if I were brave enough to take a dive down below into  those icy waters and open my eyes, there it is -- huge and unyielding. If I could get out of myself long enough, I wouldn't want to just see the bigger picture, but the biggest picture. This is my impossible goal. Truthfully, I think everyone needs one of those. Everyone needs a goal which is almost very nearly within reach, just so that we might catch a little piece of it - the tiniest thread. I wonder what one ought with a little bit of impossible. Could you imagine? 

Monday, December 3, 2012


What you gave me made me smile,
So ordinary and so worthwhile.
Like kindness in code,
and hope incognito --
I'll store it away,
but in plain sight.
A secret.
Unknowingly uncovered.
Underlined in its sitting place.

Sunday, November 4, 2012


You are not who you think you are.
You are not who you were.
You are not who you'll become.
You are placed in each moment,
like a single frame of a film reel.
Every second is rebirth into the next
and the end result,
I think, is what they call
the bigger picture.

Saturday, November 3, 2012


The things I love, I count in threes:
A splash of milk in my coffee or tea
Rain and fog with peeks of sun
A brisk walk, a skip or run -
Down the street with the sidewalk cracks -
Children's chalk art, railway tracks
And when I step off the train
I'm met with a smile, kiss and embrace
Strangers show their toothy grin,
When I leave to let them in
The chilly lips of the wind
Kiss my cheeks like the closest of kin
And that lovely, knitted, woolen scarf
Which gently hangs upon my neck
Brings warmth and comfort,
like the arms of the beloved I've not yet met
And there I am before the day
Before the work and rest and play
Before all the those things we do
And all those things we must get through
For me just to simply be,
I count the things I love in threes
One, so I shall not forget
that I am ever humbly blessed
Two, reminds me I'm not yet done,
and there is always more than one
Three, to stretch beyond belief
what it means to fight defeat --
in the greyest of the morning skies,
amongst the crowd of passer-bys,
and the unrest of a sleepless eye,
amongst the grief, sorrow and apathy,
I keep a little skeleton key
in a bundle of 1, 2, 3
That opens to a freer me

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

4;50pm - My Apologies to Wordsworth

The art of bad poetry is,
the awkward lines,
the pathetic rhymes,
the nonsensical metaphors,
the cliches, the hyperboles,
and the liberal use of what it means,
to be "free verse".

I am repeat offender to all of the above
and honestly, more.
Blame it on my education,
or lack of appreciation
of metre and scansion.
Yes, I wish I knew more.

But above all,
I will transfer what is written,
on the skin of my heart
to the skin of the blank page.

For what is poetry
but the messy transplant of
emotions and connections
from the internal to the external.

I apologize to Chaucer and Wordsworth,
Pope and Shakespeare,
and those other gods of ink and paper.

I am young and shallow,
Brainless and unfocused,
And I have yet to experience,
the heavy novel idea of humanity.

My pen will only write what is in the deepest part of me.
And for that, I offer my sincerest apologies.

Friday, September 7, 2012

2:06 am - Bookmark

To share one moment is simple.
It's like a folded page where we both stop
and say "Oh yeah, we'll return here later --
We'll remember this turned over landmark
for when we want to remember where it all began."
but, more often than not, it's when it all stopped
because we never went back, not once,
to turn over to the next page,
to read through the plot,
and get to know our characters,
the subtext, the metaphors,
the running themes.
What's left is a creased corner;
an imprint of a memory.
Even if when we try to flatten it out,
the line proves stubborn and indignant.
So then with eyes forward,
we are sentenced to the next sentence.
Then comes another moment,
another other --
another permanent crease left by the wayside.
And so it goes, till the whole story seems marked,
by forgotten friends and faces without names.

We could leave it there
and that would be okay.
It would be fine by me,
to have disconnected pages
attached to a binding spine,
and I could call that my story.
Why not? It's mine.
But I am told of a myth where lies some truth in it,
that one day there'll be another other,
who is unlike any other I've ever known,
who leaves no creases on some page,
and gladly reads cover to cover.

Monday, September 3, 2012


A small answer is a brash reply
To the question that, in comparison,
Is indeed sizable in depth,
width and thought.

Sunday, September 2, 2012


Two strangers need to sit
On a crowded, dusty train
Each leg, all four, are tired
Knees weak from a day's compromise
Haggard eyes and a sloping posture
Betray the front presented

The bluff in the pistols
Is the aversion to rest
The flicker of a broken ad
Reflects upon his scuffed up shoes
And the faded gold watch of the other

A literal standstill
Where one knows the other
Without making eye contact
And still they stand

At the next station and elderly woman boards
She breaks the draw and sits.

Saturday, September 1, 2012


Here I am in a countdown state:
from ten to one,
start it over again
from ten to one,
again and again.
The cycle never seems to bend.
I wait for the bus,
I wait for my friend,
I wait for the call, 
I wait for the end,
from ten to one
again and again.
It is in my head,
that those numbers descend --
When waiting for toast,
whilst only bread.
When watching for green,
while stopped at red.
Ten to one.
Again and again.
So are we meant,
to reset,
from ten,
down to one,
then back to ten,
and live in the countdown,
that never ever,
seems to,

But I wonder...

If I went from one to ten,
I wonder where I would be then?
Counting up to who knows when,
to who knows where,
with no agains.
I could count to infinity,
and know there is much more to see.

Friday, August 17, 2012

3:37pm - The Study of Nature

To my delight,
the sun shines,
the rain falls,
the wind blows,
the bees buzz --
buzz, buzz,
and birds fly
in the sky,
and fish swim
in the sea,
and babies --
they smile,
they cry,
all the time!
Oh, and time!
It goes,
And I?
I  adjust.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012


Just one superfluous word
Steals simplicity
Like the last leaf of the tree.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Time Travel - 1:53pm

Time travel is the farthest distance closest to home.
I could stand in my open garage--
watch innumerable sunsets rise and fall.
Colour jerks and jumps in every which direction,
It could be human, but who knows?
I've never been one for the rewind,
So I'd just unwind into the future.
And when I've reached the destination,
I realize I am not confined. The walls ceased to exist long ago.
But before I go - before I take that first step - before the first breath - 
shall I first remind myself that all I knew is dead and gone;
all I've loved is just soul and dust.
Freedom isn't what I thought it'd be -- it's lonely.
But then I remember that I am a time traveler,
And I'll have much to tell after the long trek home.
So I take that breath --I take the step.
Time or space, the journey is the same.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012


A burden we all must bear.
I wish I could do away with it --
Chop it into fine pieces,
toss it into the garburator; be done with it.
Instead it and I will live side by side,
and while I dream of the impossible
it will hold my hand and keep me from the sky.
And I will sigh and watch the blue from the ground.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012


A gentle turn in the wind
leads me into the unknown
and lovely path.

Now I do understand what is meant
to walk around the scenic route.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Tuesday, May 15, 2012


Is this a misplaced excitement -
that gnaws at the pit,
and grows ever steady
with every touch of the pen
and every word which is read.

My eye takes in what is not before me,
but what is further than the horizon.
It is not a concrete picture,
but a floating translucency!

Again, I must ask, have I been misplaced?
In the scheme of the world,
I should not think of such frivolous things,
and yet, this palpitation does not cease.

Friday, May 4, 2012


What more can one say
If one has given away
my position.

You know where I stand -
With the ever silent offer
and promise.

And I do stand 
With a drip, drip, drip
upon my forehead.

It knocks and irritates
till insanity is a blink away.

Well, here lies the brink.

Yet, surrender?
Torture is expected.

No man's will is a statue.
It is a painting.

Thus, I chose to stand;
be a subject to the game.

Sunday, April 22, 2012


It's contagious, I think
Often, I think
That maybe a little bit
spreads far
and fast

and for the better.

Like a wave
that dies
against the collision
of those jagged rocks -

- no longer a wave;
simply part of the ocean

Friday, April 20, 2012


Answer me this:

a) death
b) life
c) love

And no, there is no all of the above.

Monday, April 16, 2012


Sit by me
And you will see
there is more than one
of me.

Hold my hand
And you will find
I am not the living

But I'd rather fly
than float.

By God,
I've gone.


You have everything
But you don't have anything.

Materials are a formality
And Death an inevitability.

You've got your finger on the trigger,
but Hope is ever devoted.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012


Your sideswept accusations,
and grotesque expectations
and our broken communication,
leave me pinned --
to the ground
I am floored.
You can leave through the door.

Saturday, March 24, 2012


I am a sleeping sparrow
My blanket is my wings
And though I have the gift of song
I dare not choose to sing.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012


Quick to run
Quick to fall
Quick to slam against the wall
Quick to speak
Quick to shout
Quick to pour my whole self out.