I write poetry. Submit a poem request and I’ll write the poem and publish it on the website shortly. Because, why not?
“I want a poem about a bad date with a smoker.”
She dates with a subway stare
passing through the appetizers
like a soldier wading through a swamp
pushing reeds aside for the wine.
More and more the people nudging
clutching at her sleeves like ghosts
trying to push her smile out
haunting her with obscene jokes.
A Saturday date inside, but
she smokes with a Sunday fervor outside
forging a private atmosphere
with every grey breath she forms
so she climbs into her cigarette cloud
both hands digging down, like a hazelnut
burrowing past all colors
through the skull of the Earth
through the edge of her drowsy wine
into her heart- still warm on the plate,
for all that want to bite the black.
“Write a poem about an angel turning human.”
can you feel my gravestone
linger like the one day cold?
You made a tumbling world move
pushed every curve into herds
pushed every pound into pines
in one thousand ways, this rock alive.
Yet, here I browse in the subway-
watching rats in the dark
shuffles in the cracks.
God’s gravity has grown so stale,
once overfilling and now just drizzling
like the graffiti I feel on my own skin
lighter with the memories.
Disengaged from the wind- I ache,
waiting for my wings to froth and fro
with me old temperature that fought the ground
until the clouds showed me rain
and I pelted and pelted with the water down
and mud and snow and the grey
and then I am the wild shadow called human
skimming through the blinking universe
bridging the cold and the hot
searching for a breakthrough,
breaking everything for a handhold in the sky
where one day I will return,
and the winds with take my home.
“I want a poem about a cold city.”
They say the sky churns
the calm and soft exhale
but it never yawns in my city mechanical.
The somber groan from puddles grey,
effortless past the blurs I heave.
We walk faster now-
feeling red lights feathering
our silent leather coats
bumping faded eyes by the subway.
This darling snarl-
of my hanging winter-
new needles made of chills
for the streetscape blue.
Onward the metal,
over and under forgether,
our flocks splashing,
for every moment
the silent sliding without yearning.
“I can’t afford to lose valuable energy on things that aren’t as important.”
My day is sculpted until I whisper
my night’s budding dance
warm like children’s song.
On my pillows I miss the minutes,
but I smile inside
because this day is mine.
Always, I push my skies until hell,
but my grins overflow <
greener than Saturday blooming.
But, my eyes feel –
every urging minute
trampling all fumbling questions -
until the only answer is later,
and the snows melt the promises away.
“Write a poem about your toenails.”
On the stone floor, patterns
of toes once pattered,
like dough unrolled I was a boy,
and my little toes grew up
into something I rarely feel,
and the nails grew hard
and rigid, with fringing dirt.
“I’ve seen it all.”
Not every life is spent on the airy breeze,
looking for the holes of a tree to perch inside.
But the walls we draw around ourselves,
make us hide from the roads that wander
and our patched kisses like grassy slumber
waiting for the soft toes of a child.
Photographs pull us into towers,
and the true affections peer at us
from the night, as we draw curtains,
and our world shifts closed.
If you see it all, but never know
the heart beating from the oaks
or the tides bearing salty breath
or the snaking rivers gently woven,
then you will only know the stones
that stub your toes and make it rain
on the sharp world you flicker.
“A poem about free will and convention in an arboreal setting.”
If I were the wind,
I would whip the clouds away,
until the trees asked for water
to unwind the skies
and let the rain roar down.
If I was a worm,
I would curl in a secret hole,
explore the brown deep,
and itch my back on the spine
of the rocky earth.
If I were the trees,
I would praise the clouds,
chat with the worms and birds,
and hope the humans
never want to break the root.
for the root is all,
for a tree that is.
Because the plans of a tree
do not exist, unlike
our plans for trees.
but a tree may still hope,
because a will is not hooked
to an intelligent brain,
but it is an automatic flair for life
to live and live more.
So before you dismiss the natural
tendencies of unbroken will,
please be wise to the design of words
like will, freedom, and life,
so all that lives has the will to be awake.
I can weave your pain into vines of pills,
but it will tumble you into a numb slumber
on the Sunday sloping downward to melancholy,
like the meager pinecones that drop effortlessly.
I can show you more than chemical collapse,
so you can sharpen the eager daylight
-slipping upward through branches beyond
into the rainbows of an uncaptured nature.
Let loose your hand from the door
and walk with your heart ahead,
to the sightless brush
that paints us in our lost element.
My reality is stuffed with rules,
but here the catacombs open
and the open possibilities overflow
like a sunset on the oceans
in all directions a warm breeze.
My extinguished peace cries,
but my story swells with adventure
like a dragon meeting fire.
“Our world recycles souls, wiping our memories clean after every death. You wake up in the body of (animal of your choosing) locked up and on display in a Zoo. This time, you remember everything…”
What are these claws I carry?
I reach only forward and I see sand
flickering through my grasp,
like someone’s smoky vision
implanted in my brain.
My head reverberates,
clicking against the shells,
that share my confusion.
I see hell in every pulsing
shade from the red lights above.
I remember my human service,
once pressed onto this Earth
in a busy reckless bundle.