the things we say in the night (a poem)

i know the things i say in the night,
intensify in the soft moonlit chill;
i know the things you say in the night,
inspire you with a mean little thrill.

i know the things i do in the night,
sing me sweetly to a cosmic sleep;
i know the things you do in the night,
make you feel like you’re in too deep.

you know i’ve said too much in the night,
prepared a ghost story or two;
you know you’ve said too little in the night,
concocted your lies instead of what is true.

you know i’m mystified by the night,
though i’d rather fall into a dream;
you know you’re chained to the night,
and i won’t ever hear you scream.

we know the things we say in the night,
mean more to one than to the other;
we know the things we say in the night,
cause us both to smile and to suffer.

skeleton on a swing (poem)

bones blown from magic,
and a swing made from wood;
slowly wind pushes you,
and your heart misunderstood.

natural decomposition,
and a thought of childhood;
your ankles lightly dangle,
and you hang beneath elmwood.

collagen, ossein,
and a breeze to help you sway;
dead flowers bloom inside you,
and bake in the light of midday.

ashes to ashes,
and your skeleton in decay;
dust to dust,
and yet you wish for yesterday.

phone call

off the beaten path i went,
escaping those from whom i hid.
as soon as I heard that voice,
i knew i just had to go off the grid.

sometimes my skin crawls,
and sometimes it softens.
but that voice inside my head,
how i wish it could be forgotten!

but that’s not how life works,
i learn, mile after mile after mile.
how i want to bury my phone,
take those names off speed dial.

but some numbers don’t vanish,
no matter the time nor distance;
so then i do what i do best,
and take the path of least resistance…

poem to my selfish heart

little fingers reach for the moon,

but catch empty space instead;

little toes ache for freedom,

but sink deeper into the sand.

little lungs breathe in and out,

a stubborn exhale and expand;

little teeth smile and frown,

an invitation to a foreign land.

my heart burns and blisters,

wanting what it cannot have;

but my brain sings and whistles,

when i consider what i have instead.

my eyes, they sting and water,

powered by emotion’s command;

but my voice calls out:

“oh, the joy in a world unplanned!”

twenty three (a poem)

twenty three, twenty three,
how i’ve been waiting for you,
and you’ve been waiting for me;

twenty three, twenty three,
it’s nice to finally meet you,
and i hope you’ll be kind to me.

twenty three, twenty three,
trips ’round the sun i’ve made,
and yet there’s so much more to see;

twenty three, twenty three,
sweet years to find myself here,
ready for what you may bring me.

twenty three, twenty three,
i count every blessing you give,
as each day brings opportunity;

oh, twenty three, twenty three,
how wonderfully lucky i am,
to be alive and healthy and free!


body aches

brain, brain,
hidden in the bones of my skull;
how you ache and ache within the confines of my soul.

heart, heart,
swollen between my lungs;
how you bruise with each rough word from my tongue.

eyes, eyes,
strained from all i’ve made you see;
how you must wish you could sear and blind me.

body, body,
tired and weary you walk and stumble;
how I’ve made you age and bleed and fade and crumble…


darkness, darkness,
and then there was light;
a flash of brilliance,
to separate day and night.

the stars and the moons,
the planets and galaxies;
brought forth from nothing
yet governed by gravity.

cosmos and suns,
the universe unending;
you stretch and stretch,
forever extending

into the darkness,
your flash of light beams forth;
while i rotate in one spot,
glued to the face of sturdy Earth.

my eyes, my eyes,
how they stare into the heavens;
and watch and wait,
hoping for the essence

of a streaking comet,
or celestial glow;
yet the vision above,
leaves me in pain below.

oh, jeweled star crystals,
and dying nebulae;
how i ache when I see you,
from a million light years away.

and time, time,
you grow into space unknown;
while i age and hollow, fading
to specks of dust and bone!

the ice of sight (a poem)

on a desolate mountaintop in the ice
sits an angry man who has lost his sight

he sits and puffs out plumes of smoke
and considers the words he once wrote:

words that were meant to jolt and inspire,
that now blot out his organs in scarlet fire.

while he freezes himself in the winter snow,
wondering what he does and does not know,

he wishes he could see his words on paper
though now they are to him but a vapor

that swirls inside and deepens in his brain
a dark and dismal but necessary refrain:

i am an angry man who has lost my sight,
and here i sit on a mountaintop with a heart of ice