Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

Presuming on your goodness,
Believing in your ability,
Perceiving you will not break me.

Willing to obey your instructions,
Hoping you will teach me,
Waiting impatiently.

A thirst for learning is a virtue,
E’en when paired with impatience,
right?

Sleep.
Easy to spell.
Easy to write.
Easy to say.
But hard for the insomniac.

Sleep deprivation.
Hard to spell when hallucinating.
Hard to write with eyes closing.  
Hard to say while decomposing—a rare case, it’s true.
But easy for the insomniac.

Why is it so difficult to:

    Stop for the night,
    Leave entertainment behind,
    Ease body in bed,
    Elude conscious thought, and
    Peacefully rest
    ?

Beautiful form,
Color of cement,
Rough texture,
Heavy weight.

Thin brush,
Melted white wax,
Pattern applied,
10 minute wait.

Wide brush,
Turquoise and white glazes,
Alternating in bands,
Around the tall vase

Sitting on a plank,
Drying in the breeze,
Sunning itself,
Just another in a line-up.

Dark place,
Intense heat,
Wax burns,
Glaze melts and fuses.

Brief glimpse of sun,
Put out in the trash,
Newspapers below ignite,
Lid closed down tight.

Flames suffocate themselves,
Reducing environment,
No longer oxidizing,
Affects the final look.

Carbon floats, turning
What was covered by wax into shiny black,
Adding lines of black to the white glaze,
Covering the vessel with burnt debris.  

Exposed to the sun once more,
Cooled in the breeze,
Rinsed with water,
Scrubbed clean.

Admired by the crowds,
White vase with black cracks,
Copper bands with hints of turquoise,
Interspersed with black vertical leaves.

Each one different,
Results never predictable,
Never to be reproduced,
Variables too complex.

Raku-fired pottery, treasured for its unpredictable color variation
Why can’t nature’s palette of skin color,
be likewise prized,
instead of despised?

Uncontrollable quivering,
Innumerable butterflies,
Uncertain future.

Concrete set,
Mind at peace,
Course decided.

Eyes open the soul to inspection.
Sometimes when eyes meet the soul is filled with wonder and delight,
others an extreme desire to run and to fight,
an infestation that entangles and ensnares,
a **** that gathers there.

I have been burned by prying eyes,
their color, shape, and design
embedded into my memory for the remainder of my life.

In my mind, everything around those eyes have faded into obscurity over time.

The image at first is clear, but the edges fade rapidly,
Until all i see are the eyes filled with intensity.
A silent command, “Keep quiet.”

How could I have been so naive to have listened?
I remember being questioned when I kept my distance,
I said I didn't feel well,
An unheard cry for help.

I contemplated telling the truth,
But every time I thought to give proof,
I felt the eyes on me.
I was as if they could see everything within my head.

The eyes, they knew my intentions,
And their stormy presence gave way to hesitations,
It was not a total lie…
I wasn’t feeling well.

The cause of this unwell was what should be
Foreign to the lives of little children, like me.
This dark thing was not a thought to be entertained.
How is it that one morning you wake up,
Eyes masked by rose colored glasses,
And the next they’ve turned to jade?

Were my innocent eyes what made him want to pursue?
Open, inviting, gaps in the wall that hid my spirit?
Maybe that is why I was the target,
Windows wide enough for a thief to climb through.


I have very little memory of that time.
All that I can recall are those eyes,
Gleaming, and beady in the night,
Reflecting nothing but glimmer of the hallway light.

I remember how they looked when they looked back at me,
And forever those eyes will be trapped inside my memory.

What haunts me more than those grey and lifeless eyes,
Is how for all the times I saw those eyes,
They never seemed to see the tears in mine.