#unpublished
Sometimes it feels like
no one really reads
my words,
like they don’t matter.
Even if I’m never published,
I will still write.
Dec 23, 2025
Dec 23, 2025 at 2:15 PM UTC
the most beautiful roses are not red,
but palest of yellow with pink
streaks,
violets reside in a giant Etruscan urn
before our modest home, a
reminder to the modesty
and brilliance of color spotting in a sea
of immense waves of ski-ed blue and
verdant green, a visual, floral,
peak,
the violent virtual of the week,
wrecks a soft creamy despair across
the nation’s cheek, another slap at
the notion of our greatness residing
in our above all, unifying and
basic simplistic notions of kindness,
and the violets turn out insufficient
to gladden our hearts in a sea of
bleak,
and I turn my eyes to the great scapes
that surround my soul, absent
only snow capped mountains
but memory works, serves up,
what resides a mere thousand miles away,
so now my visual vistas completed,
and a tea of c a l m, aroma soothing,
massages my temple and rests my
blood pointy fingertip composers,
and I am somehow, someone who is
tweaked,
upon my heart in the real of solid
dark of fog and cloud that is my
true tempered reality, where I am
wrecked and wreaked,
a havoc of pain relief cream,
soothing, relieving the anguish
that rests within and periodically
calming, thus alive to survive,
and yet remind:
a-salve to inject,
to still,
and yet,
permit stll,
a streak of
shrieks
Jul 19, 2024
Jul 19, 2024 at 10:55 PM UTC
i am a poor artist
i begged for the colours for fill,
who bought a cheap canvas a year ago,
which i see them empty.. plane still.
you had the colours i need,
why she has no paint in yet,
how can i touch her,
if its the only one i've got,
one who is only one,
care n' love is to be given,
i fear if i ruin her,
thus, i didn't fill to make it even,
im waiting, for the time to colour,
its white fair surface with blue,
im a poor artist, before,
i don't want it to you.
Sep 21, 2021
Sep 21, 2021 at 3:56 AM UTC
Sometimes I must do nothing.
Not wash the sheets,
not vacuum, just
stare into the generosity
of the Red Oak,
whose loving indifference
is achingly intimate.
Her branches gnarled,
hidden by green plumes
desiring sun, wanting time
to let be.
What does she see of me
thumbing a poem
on a glass box to join
the unfinished poems
I leave in my wake?
The tree smiles,
today we are one,
I in my green,
you with a period
at the end of your poem.
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 11:22 AM UTC
Looking at the fully filled in page,
A good poem,
Sure to trend within minutes.
It just feels right.
A pause,
A half smile,
As the small X on the upper right hand of the window is clicked,
And the profile page is brought back up once again.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 1:37 AM UTC
Last night
I dreamt
We were married
Man and wife
Our kids played
Brother and sister
In our trimmed lawn
In our white fence
We had
No cares
Trusted society
Trusted government
I woke up in a cold sweat.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
Fast food and motel signs floating in blackness
To illuminate the night sky like child’s stickers
Plastered onto parent’s precious painting
Decorate the mighty treadmill we used
To exercise vehicular endurance and find
How many times can we note the golden arches
We traded hours of sleep to reach the city
Of a singing Mormon’s dream
He was only on a billboard for a week or so
You’re as warm as the city with twice the life
Making plans for another before we reach
Our trial home happy and tidy
Now where’s the one who’s seen the world
But still wants to be in mine?
In my lap on a couch in her living room
(I could go on to fill a children’s book
Like the lady who swallowed a frog)
Now she exists everywhere, my Malachi Constant
Who makes it okay I’ll never swim on Saturn
I like the way the green light illuminates my face
When I’m on my way home to see her at night
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
All the planets are falling
Much to my chagrin
From their fishing line and ticky-tacky
Out of the stucco cosmos.
The days are carbon copies
Of last month’s plans:
Work and meet with people who matter
Not enough that I don’t need reminding.
The second bookshelf isn’t quite full
But the knick-knacks look nice
Even the fake succulent
Helps to tie it all together.
A brown lizard on the wall
Still only metal
Extends his tail for a towel,
But all of mine are folded on the floor
Next to the briefcase-looking record player
I hardly use but use enough.
And the TV is in front of my bed
Where I hardly sleep but sleep too much
And now the incense has died
But it will smell nice all day.
When I leave the microcosm will crash
Except for the sticky ticky-tacky stalactite
My burnt out light bulb will be replaced
A star for a new solar system
If any god or goddess thinks to make one
But for now
The planets are falling.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
I wrangle words
Strangle verbs
Milk them for all they're worth
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC