I typically don’t write poetry anymore.  Turns out my muse was enraged hormones.  Being married, i don’t tend to have those anymore.  This allows me to write well-considered narratives, but the cries of teenage angst are no longer.  I’ve decided to immortalize some of the better ones here.  No particular order.

This page is a work in progress.  In the future, I may go all Langston Hughes on it and provide a little back story.  Also, the font’s a little screwy.  I got sick of messing with it.

After Adam

Water droplets
glisten on a cobweb
stretched between
two trees
of life and knowledge
and then

Most are absorbed
in the soil,
but some continue to glisten
amidst the grass.


Physical marks of passion

have long since disappeared.

Yet the will that they planted,

to one day replenish them,

has yet to be disencumbered.

Damn this lingering aftertaste

April 8, 2006


I kiss unexpected fate
And am drawn a desired card,
But these things are of no consequence.

Because melodramatic Jacks
balance on high fences,
while hypocritical Queens
ride compulsive totters.
9’s should have no influence
on the final outcome,
but when paired with a deuce,
they attach to the Jack
which pulls in the Queen.

It takes two cards to build a tower—
flakiness in one leaves the other face down
on the table, just waiting to be drawn
by another player.

Complicated rules are of good intentions
but hearts were always meant to be broken.

<August 22, 2006>

Chicago Slums

The sun falls out of sight

leaving in its wake a lingering red

which paints February trees and

blighted gable-front houses

against the horizon.

Muffled fighting

and fucking creep out

rotten windows

skirting amongst frozen swimming pools

and littered lawns before finally

being overcome by 747’s flying low overhead

in final descents.

Many passengers sit

with faces stuck to the windows

thanking God for four-year degrees

and general well-being. Others

impatiently watch the seatbelt sign

slapping cell phones open…closed…and open again

anxious to turn them back on

cursing a moment’s discomfort.

Meanwhile below a man’s weary arms

from long hours wield a shovel

piling high the last bits of lingering snow

so his boys can dig a snow-fort.

Finishing, he rests

watching them scramble in the waning light:



Christmas Cliche

Christmas is almost here, let’s celebrate
Busting our wallets on all these nice gifts
Screwing our eyes at sloppy written lists
Forgetting about it until it’s too late
The shopping mall lines move at a slow rate
The aisles full of toys need to be plowed
The frantic rush of carts is so damn loud
Pushing and shoving becoming irate
But during the bustle of this Christmas
Do not lose sight of the joy in your heart
And love for others that will always last
But each of these things is just a small start
For the real importance of this great day
Is that Jesus was born making the way

<December 2004>


What feelings haunt me on this gloomy day?

Emptiness, Loneliness, and maybe despair

So many things seem to have gone astray

Twisted remnants of joy and broken pairs

Amidst the debris a broken heart lays

Once given to me, expected to care

I hate myself for this joy I have slain

Why was it like this? It just isn’t fair

Overcoming, I cut into the Earth

I cast the pieces into the abyss

Burying the guilt that ever gave birth

Forgetting the times when I was in bliss

I turn from the hole and head towards the sun

Knowing that someday, I will find the one.


I wrote this poem as a way to deprive

My head of all thoughts that are bad

Better to be thankful, happy, alive

It’s my life and in it I thrive

With countless blessings for which I am glad

So into these things, I willingly dive.

So many people are greatly deprived

Alone in their world, rejected and sad

Better to be thankful, happy, alive

I rejoice in the road that I drive

Although it may not be the one planned

I’ll take that risk, I take that dive.

It wastes time to be bitter about life

Think about all the good times you had

Forward with these, you can strive

I wrote this poem as a way to deprive

Thoughts in the world of everything bad

It’s better to be thankful, happy, alive

Lose yourself, take a new kind of dive.

Eleven Floors of Silence


A ding alerts me

Doors sliding open

quick to follow.

My eyes are not greeted

by the usual plane interior

but rather by a silent beauty

apparently come from above.

The surprise joins forces

with my pressing shyness

and subdues my tongue

as the initial moment

of acceptable greeting passes.

The doors slide shut behind me

trapping us in a six by six

cell of endless opportunity.

Yet with every passing moment

Shyness tightens its grip.


We stand on opposite walls

divided by several feet

of seemingly impermeable


avoiding each others eyes.





This speed seems

faster than normal.


All hope is lost

and is replaced by desperation.


I pray for a jam.


I curse my shyness.


I resort to last minute glances.


The pleasant ding

Once more,

Although now announcing

Another failed opportunity.

The doors slide open

Silently mocking,

And she leaves me

With only a trace

of her perfume

drifting over me

and flirting with my


<September 18, 2005>

Faltering Steadfast Hope

Life’s tribulations render me helpless

Like a lone raft on a vast,

Churning ocean.

My spirits lifted high

On the peaks of the waves

And subsequently crashed down

Then tossed about so much so

that I lose all bearings.

This world, this environment

Glorifies the blasphemies

Of the things I hold dear,

And implants in my soul

The desires to follow suite

This conflict, this dissonance

Weakens my spirit

Even as I fight to overcome it.

I fall to my knees

And lift my voice

To the Heavens

And choke out words

Of repentance and Humility

Even as my Faith in Him


Stay with me God

I cannot stand alone.

Make your presence known

In my soul,

Even as my desires

Claim the antithesis.


I run from Faith

As if it intends to entrap me

In a solitary pit

With lions standing by

Should my mind wander

Towards blasphemy.

I give into

The desires of this Earth,

And with these things clutched to my heart,

I flee.

This dissociation

Of what is right

And how I act

Freezes the air in which I run.

It burns my throat and lungs

As I attempt to breathe.

The indulgences in which I partake

Have become part of me

And are the saliva and mucous

That I frantically swallow

In efforts of easing

My burning heart,

But this remedy proves only temporary

And the pain only increases

As I continue to run.

Perhaps someday

Life will offer a root

Ensnaring my foot,

And thus prostrating me

Face first on the ground.

Perhaps then,

As my body mercilessly

Skids to a stop,

Will I regret,


Will I surrender.

But now,

In the heat of the moment

The glory of fun

Somehow surpasses

The glory of God.

I know I should stop running,

And end my sad flee,

But I cannot.


Forgotten Lives

Remember the days when we thought we had perfect lives?

Everything was fun, and our happiness never denied

We enclosed ourselves in an idealized world with nothing wrong

we’d never believe it if told it’d soon be gone.

This is a tribute to struggles fought

and a memoir of days when prayers were not

how to make it one more day

but the hope that there would be a way.

One by one, our perfect world fell apart

The realization set in that life would be hard

Insecurities, death, and depression started filling our minds

we began to notice that comfort was harder and harder to find.


What happened to the joy that filled our hearts?

It’s bound by pain and sorrow and fiery darts

How can we release it to save ourselves?

From a life that isn’t far from Hell.


Remember the days when we thought we had perfect lives?

we’d never believe it if told it soon be gone.


Killing the hormones didn’t turn out right

Killing the hormones didn’t turn out right
Barring rational thought
They swarmed after you
God knows what they were thinking
Thought you to be some sort of blessed seraphim
I tried to beat them off
Yet with every attempt
They increased force
Once again becoming their slave
I fell in love with you

Mistakes Rubbed In

How hard is it to kill a bird?

One that has already

Injured its wing.

Every single passerby

That hears its sad song

Harasses its disadvantage

Replenishing the pain

That it already suffers

Until one day

It has run out

Of even the saddest of songs



Mountains, monsters of the land

Mammoths rising out of the plains

A collage of peaks and valleys

Pasted against the perfect blue sky

One in particular calls me

In the midst of the great Sierras

No worn trail scars her face

The perfect result of two land masses

Come together to grind

The base trail appeals to me

A path winding through green meadows

And pristine streams with teaming trout

I splash my face with water and lie in the grass

My soul restores

At her base, the trail diminishes

I push onward, the route mine to choose

She looms above me-

A glorious thirteen five.

Ten thousand feet, I emerge from the trees

I am struck by beauty from all sides

Looking to the mountain, the summit is in sight

I begin the climb, loving every aspect of it

But will the summit be as glorious as it seems?

And how long will I stay when I get there

When I have only to come back down.

Nontraditional Murder

A fly flew into my room today

his origin unknown

as the temperature outside

lies far below the life zone

of such a creature.

He takes to flying around my head

Apparently rejoicing

The more pleasant climate.

I shift in agitation,

He settles upon my SHIFT key.

My eyes fall on a rubber band

Laying on my desk

Forgotten up to this point.

Barely moving,

Not daring to remove my eyes from my companion,

I reach for the band of rubber

Once used for general purposes

Now to be used for death.

The band is raised to my fingers

And pulled taught.

I raise my aim to the shift key–

Dammit he’s gone,

Taken to obnoxious buzzing again.

The band still held taught,

I wait with anticipation,

My eyes sweeping the room

In search of my target.

My evader presently returns

This time settling on my desk.

The band tightens

The mark located

I release my desktop weapon.

The aim is true–

Fly and band are launched under the monitor.

I flick him out with a pencil,

But he is not dead,

The shot off by a fraction

And only damaged his wing

and corresponding legs.

He moves in a circle on my desk,

Dragging injured appendages,

In a sort of pleading dance,

And desperately trying to escape a second attack.

Pity fills me, and I hurriedly set the band

and pull it tight

to finish the job.

This time the aim is dead on.

The rubber striking the insect

directly on the abdomen

squishing it,

And consequently ejecting his innards

out onto my desk

In a small radius about his body.

Satisfaction at a job well done fills me

As I remove the mess with a Kleenex

And continue studying.

<November 18, 2005>

On the Page

Just never understanding, We

Endlessly searched for answers

Subsequently losing faith…all the while, the actual answer

Unnoticed right before us…waiting to

Save us

February 23, 2005

Road Kill

I found him in a ditch

just off the road.

He lay there,

a broken heap amidst the grass,

his antlers broken,

and flies sipping up the blood

as it drained from his body.

Blood that once surged with life

through his great veins.

Now it trickles down into the dirt

rendering him unrecognized

as the proud buck he once was.

Now just a heap on the side of the road,

still unaware of what he’d done wrong.

He had thought he was too good for death,

His pride had become to great,

and now he lies there

with the grass still waving

and egging him on.


She fucks light

And darkness bulges over

the shadows of evil men.

“Give up!”–She cries

But they hold their ground,

Claiming they’re already dead.

So she sucks the life from them

And goes on her way

Fucking and sucking

Danglers and knots stuck in the fray.


In Response

People ask how we’re doing and

even though an answer


forms in my head

eager to be stated, I answer

cautiously, because it feels pompous

to answer directly.

<December 2007>

Let me rant here briefly

Let me rant here briefly

because yours is the prettiest face

I have ever seen.

And now,

I lie here with mixed emotions

because for once in my life,

I fear that I may never have to search again.

But it’s not the bad kind of fear of a sort of suffocation

that I have felt before.

It’s an excited anticipation of what could come.

It’s the wonder that you may be achieving what no girl has before.

I can’t believe I’m writing this mush,

this shit—it’s not me,

but somehow, now it is,

and it just feels right.

<June 2007>

Limits Found

Countless empty pages,

countless torn and trashed,

and I still stare at the page and wonder

how to put this into words.

Poems of anger and frustration come easily

But conversely when the subject

is no less than perfect,

any of the words I can muster

seem to always fall short.

<October 2007>


That One Place

We lie there

just warming up

and teasing each other

with cold hands.

But I pull you in close

and you nuzzle once,

nuzzle twice,

before eventually finding

that perfect place

for your nose on my neck.

And nothing can replicate,

nothing can describe,

not an overplayed love song,

not a thousand crumpled pages of failed poetry,

the feeling I get in that moment.

<December 2007>

The Sled Jump

I thought it would be funny

to send you soaring in the air.

So as you walked up the hill

I piled the highest ramp I dared.

And as your sled gained speed

my excitement grew

And as you neared the kicker

your screams got louder too.

Then you flew into the air

and my excitement turned to delight

but you flew so high

I began to pray you’d be alright.

you hit the ground

and came to a stop prostrated on your back

And as you laid there in shock

I ran over as I held back laughs.

I tried to console you

but you assured me you were fine

and in that moment

a new feeling for you was defined.

Yes it seems odd

that such an event would instill such a fate

but I think to laugh at a fall

is the best kind of trait.

<June 2007>

The Little Things

They lay next to

One another

Their feelings tabooed

And repressed

A thin cushion

Of air runs between them

From which they both breathe

This space

Only a few inches

But undefined

At this time

His arm violates

The void

And lightly touches hers

She smiles

Ugg Boots

Ugg Boots walk along slowly,

Squish Squish.

Boots see Addidas,

Spring Spring.

Boots and Sneakers meet,

Toes to toes.

Sneaker moves in,

Kiss Kiss.

Right boot elevates,

Love Love.

Words of Comfort

She says she can’t remember

What it’s like to be truly happy.

Yet I can see the joy

Beneath the face

She gives the world,

Beyond the dread

That eats her,

When even she

Is unaware of its presence.

What words unlock the sorrow that binds it?

Be they words to which I am familiar?

Or are they absent

From this life?


The Kiss: A Girl’s Perspective

Kiss, what a word!

But hardly gives it justice

This perfect ecstasy

This wonderful feeling

The excitement, the awe

Weak in the knees

So perfect

So beautiful

Draws together

Intertwining feelings

Surely nothing is better

Than being joined in this way

The electricity flows

Filling the veins

Support me

I can no longer stand.

The Kiss: A guy’s perspective

Kiss, an attractive word
A word that creates longing
For that mysterious activity
Fun and exciting

Lips brushing
In melodic motions
Energy pulsing between them
Tongues delicately intertwined

A new desire awakens
The kiss no longer enough
Yet always longed for
Not always satisfying

But is always fun
Always something to go back to
Innocent, yet exciting

Just a Kiss, yet everything

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