It’s quite a vulnerable position to publish poetry like this. These were written in the moment and not always intended to be shared. They may not even be how I really feel about something today. They can be emotional and/or reactionary. They can be a lot of things. But one thing I never want them to be is silent. So here’s a collection of some of the poems I’ve written over the years.
Sorry the page is JUST WORDS. I intentionally didn’t put images above, below or next to the poems because I want you to conjure your own images rather than something I found on a stock image site just to add some color to the page.
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Inside The Box
This is the box in which I live.
Many are like it in look and feel, but
mine has breath, which makes it real.
It has a life I like. Protected. Alright.
Since we were small we’ve seen it all.
AM. PM. You can see ’em.
Brain dead. Wasted. Indian style.
Tilted. Jilted. Just for a while.
Something moved over there. Did you see that?
Popcorn to pretzels to Pepsis to fat.
Lights dim when you walk in. Snap!
What was that?
Now I can swivel, snivel and stare.
My soul is bare. Nothing up here. Or here.
I go to bed when my head is dead.
This is my playgound. Boxed, not round.
I don’t hate you. I embrace you. Because
I live inside you. What can I do?
I’m bitchin’ and mopin’, but look—
The flaps are open.
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A Wall Without Windows
Surely, the only logical conclusion
Was to shout:
“Bobby, quit building the wall
and come see me.”
But he pressed on with his blockade.
My vision blurred, my soul deterred,
I went my own way.
That fence cost me a friend.
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Wednesday Afternoon
Quiet bees
Paint by number.
Darkness rise, darkness fall,
All for one and one for all.
A king’s ledger for life
In trade. Strife in trade.
Still, motions made.
Near tears
By years of wear,
Yet I —
I can peek through the glass
A cock-eyed glance of fate.
Hope hits the wall
And hangs… And hangs…
Whispered voices
Call on sweeping arms to gallop.
Redundant. So true.
Please be here tomorrow.
I will be here too.
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What Happened?
Shiny, silver state of confusion.
Days of delusion.
Acts of contrition without nutrition.
You beg for me, I beg for you.
Nothing can break the bond
of a man and his organ.
Sweet, sweet music.
My heart goes to my liver,
Thoughts rush to my hands,
Impulse turns to rage
And I unlock my cage.
This isn’t how it was supposed
to be. I’m tired now. I think
I’ll nap first, then lay down
on my bed of ash.
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Murky thoughts on matters not
I wish I were a forest ranger
with a green Jeep Renegade and
keyless entry. My eyes wander along
the mountain passes while a hooded veil
frees me from the fire. Sanctimonious
bitch. Don’t tackle the odometer until
you’re sure there’s love at the end.
Break, don’t bend my long lost friend.
I’d eat the poison berries that I find
on a cold, forgotten trail. Mister Hammer,
meet Nail. Size often dictates the master
and the mistress, yet here we see the
great expanse under our control. Utterly
frozen like a straw saving breath for the
iceboy. Untether your emotions, and try to
let the Renegade speed away.
Unbeknownst to all, I am instead a chef,
and my instruments of disdain are elsewhere.
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Viewing pleasure
Entertain me. For I am
prepared
to make love to the layers of life
I’ve yet to peel. Take me under
your feathered wing and show me.
Greed
is not the sole purpose for my viewing,
and I forgive those who trespass against
me. But temptation? In fact, isn’t that
why I’m here? That, and a little
en
ter
tain
ment on the side?
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Ho Hum
I feel nothing as I react through life.
Cold is but a monitor of degree. Stated,
Overrated, Simplified for reasoning.
See my shadow unload its skin for lack of depth.
I am not a holder, nor am I to be held.
Wake me at the altar.
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Wild Flowers
The wild flower, in resilience, stands,
Roots plunged deep in shifting sands,
Through storm and sun, through peace, through strife,
A quiet testament to life.
Each petal tells a tale untold,
Of strength and beauty, fierce and bold,
In myriad shapes and hues they bloom,
In craggy cliffs and city gloom.
Against the odds, they find a way,
To dance beneath the sun’s harsh ray,
In wastelands barren, hearts grown cold,
The wild flower’s tale is bravely told.
Unnoticed oft, they still provide,
Life to others, far and wide,
In whispers of the wind they share,
Their fragility, their strength, their care.
We are they, in all our forms,
Thriving through the fiercest storms,
Resilient, fragile, in delight,
We rise again in darkest night.
We bloom in unexpected spaces,
Share our joy in tear-streaked faces,
Unassuming, vibrant, wild and free,
We are the flowers, you and me.
So here we stand, in silent song,
In places where we don’t belong,
For in our hearts, the wild flower grows,
Its strength, its beauty, ever shows.
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