In one split moment, my mother had sliced open grief right in front of me, an afternoon snack she called it. She sprinkled it with salt and pepper, plating it beside the apples that were going bad. We sat on the couch, the plate between us. Someday you’ll remember me, someday you will remember the taste of peculiar things. Like the burn of the pepper when it’s paired with something sweet and ****, and you will sit in that feeling, she warned, as I am today. I ask her to tell me something interesting, to which she would laugh and say, you’re the one who leaves every day, you must have something better to share than I do. All I had was something about walking the lines of the world, with my head down. I don’t have much to fill our silences with, except that I take her soft hands, and in them are stories, many pasts, many feelings, and I hold them. Someday you’ll remember me, and on that day, you’ll split open grief, pour it into your glass of half empty and half full, burning through the day, with the taste of pepper on your tongue.

Stories nestled in my bones
are not silent storms.
My heart is haunted
by their primordial groans.
Yet so many scattered thoughts
go unknown.
Like the frantic way
autumn leaves are blown.
What decays becomes wisdom
for another day.
Skeletal stories now, the flesh of us
is gone.
Even though we loved from the core
of our jagged bones.
Human life seems just an agonized attempt
to be heard.

Seashells hold echos
Of life beneath waves
Hold one to your ear;
Listen, can you hear their story?

there was an honest man. a good man. a story teller.
he worked in the library, taught children to read, he was a kind man, a great fella.

well "once upon a time" was his motto, his stories always bled into the light.
he went to bed as it got darker, knowing he had done his stories right.

"Nevermorre calls upon you, Storyteller." called the queen of that land.
he had to leave this era, he hoped theyd understand.

as the kind, gentle man left our world, he left a story for the children to be unfurled.
the story of Nevermorre, the friends of the past, the chimer of futures, the words of the last, the darkness of sorrow, the swirling of shame, those who read, did not return quite the same...

so quiet now young ones, im here to tell
the story of Nevermorre, is mine as well.

Going off the handle?
Better to say, gone?
Broke the neck off the bottle,
When you were just trying to
Get the cork off?
Perhaps you twisted too hard,
Slow down & be gentle.
Love isn't a race,
It's a marathon.

A rhyme heard from when he was younger,
For there was a love perverted for the Greeks & Romans.
There was more, but I won't go on.

just you and me,
tucked in midnight's fold,
sharing the day
in murmurs only we hear

W. and J. Grimm were geniuses,
Characterized not only by intelligence,
But the way they implemented it.

They understood the magic hidden within common tales,
Retracing the rich roots of Germany,
Improving the way a child learns with each word.

I like to say,
I'm an esteemed poet,
A vibrant fan of literature.
I'm an avid writer,
I recite some too.
But the first time I heard "The Raven,"
Was on the Simpsons.

We are just stories,

stories containing stories –


and that's all we are.

Today there was rain,
It brought thunder,
Strokes of electric death.
Lightning ripped through the canopy,
Aiming for a defenseless flower field.
But alas, the elder oak reached its branches out,
To take the lightning's killer blow.
So when the rain passed,
We took our saws,
To finish the job.