Tag Archives: Poetry


I turned my back on a play to do another day.
It turned its back in turn – too late? Absurd!
A lesson learned (unheard).

Simple Truths

From or to
With and for,
The company is
And isn’t.

Together without,
They’re apart within,
From all that was
At present.

So shall be
What cannot be
And so shan’t be
What should.

Can’t or can,
The words alone:
Horrible, awful,

Fleeing, Shrinking, Fled

Fleeing, shrinking, fled –
All conscious thoughts in my head
Like fish in a pool

Through Open Eyes

Through open eyes, you see the dream,
A whisper’s length from reach.
You hear it creep though it doesn’t move,
You feel its voice though it doesn’t speak —
A taste of flame that doesn’t heat,
So perfect formed, so incomplete.
You stare in longing and back away,
Away into a void
Where reason lies with emotion’s voice
And tells you nothing at all,
And from such strong persuasion,
You willingly let it fall.

A Story Untold

A story untold cannot be seen when
Untyped, unwritten, untaped:
Where could such a book be bought?
Where could such a play be heard
Or such a film be played?
And yet, as thoughts build up the plot,
As conflicts rise and peak,
A light brush paints emotions, clear,
Upon the author’s cheek.
Eyes cast inward cannot see
The painting on display.
Eyes without can only guess
The book or movie or play.

Payment in Advance

I pay now for another’s choice
But also for my own
I did not speak out or raise my voice –
And that shame is mine alone.
My silence then was cowardice,
My disbelief unwise,
But to keep them now, to turn my back,
Is closing more than eyes.

A New Hope

Brought into the world for all
Our sakes: a gift to the family,
Ready-made, but also another chance, a
New hope, however uncertain, for the future

An Ill Wind

Ignoring the skin,
The freezing wind strikes the heart
And spreads to the soul.

A Call to Pens

No capitalized letters,
A missing comma or two,
Some missing periods or
(Let’s be real)
A few,
Homophone errors
(Their “there” is “they’re.”),
Run-ons, fragments, and splices
Everywhere –
A call to the red pen:
Let the writer beware.

A Gift

Even one person
Liking your work,
Asking for more, or even
Talking about it
Is such a gift, a surprise,
Of surpassing sweetness that
Never quite fades away

%d bloggers like this: