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.