Want a poem? Yes, you do.

I write poetry. Submit a poem request and I’ll write the poem and publish it on the website shortly. Because, why not?

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Neverheart

“I can’t date this person because he is depressed and I can’t do anything about it.” -anonymous


Did you feel never
when I kissed you?
Was your heart hushed when you kissed me back?
Distance grew when you found a hole in yourself.
And you told me to fill it.
But my heart is only a spark for you,
I know I can feel it in you, wrapping comfort like a cocoon when we spoon.
But you need a fire to be free.
And I’m not a cure for your shaky sunset.

 

Here, I’m outside the compound.
I can feel monsters on your edge: 
small as your days and large as your heart.
But, I can’t push a storm with a sword.
Here I am;
I’m on the side, watching trains go past .
Wishing they would stop to let me on.

 

This is when you come close.
This is when you kiss like a dying star-
A tumbling ball of ash down every galactic throat around.
Choking me with no emotion to grasp warmly. 
Because you left hot temperature behind, hoping someone like me could pick up the scraps.
But I’m here.
Here, when you want to feel me,
Here, when you’re ready to feel you.

Feeling the Tiger’s Eye

“Why do you write poetry?”


I feel the spindle brushing air
waiting for the cooing yarn.
I feel the skin of leaves
waiting to slough off the branches.
I feel the throat of the cactus
growling with the touchless wind.
I feel the heat of doors
drooling for a somber hello.
I feel the shade of the puddles
slouching until the splash.

I feel the toes of the clouds
pouting before the task.
I feel the arms of the anchor
hunkering before the goodbye.
I feel the limber paint brush
shivering before the blank nothingness.
I feel the coffee beans black
smiling before the crush.
I feel the subway’s eyes
fearful of the outside.

But, who feels me?

I feel the sizzle of the air as it passes through the tender birds.
I feel the brown blood of the earth as it drowns the worms when it rains.

But who feels the parts of me?
Who feels my hands heavy on the bed while my eyes trace the door frame?

I feel the spider webs waiting,
awake as spikes in a pit.
I feel the deer path,
weaving without effort up the mountains.
I feel the teeth of tin foil,
gnawing and grinning like a fool.
I feel the pedals on the bike,
praying for the last push home.

But who feels my heart when it opens red as wine to the strangers?
And who feels my feet fall so heavy that they feel like dropping asteroids with every step?

I feel the drawstring of the bow when it cries for the arrow lost.
I feel the pretzel legs of shoe laces,
crying out to be untied.
I feel the soft belly of the forest itching for a fire to eat away the unwanted scraps.

But who feels the trains booming in my head as the storms of my past flood my memories?

Who feels the creamy buzz when a kiss found my teenage years?
I hear the cracking smack of pinecones searching
for water where there are only rocks.

I see the scattering bats rolling in the mines, desperate for a darker deep.
I feel how the world pushes every mite and mouse into a desperate clawing trap.

But I can’t feel where my touch is going.

I sense the sky pulsing with a zest-  sweet as a newborn giggle before the pimples come.
I feel the orange sand dunes purring before the camels come to cross again.
I feel the hips of the lip stick, standing still and straight on the night stand before the midnight salute.

I’m here amongst the edges of a crowded cliff.
I feel the sharp edge of the mosquitos’ needle,
itching for some talented blood to tend to.
I feel the horn of the salt shaker, letting go for the meal.

Does anyone feel my DNA squeezing in my cells?

I feel the whisper of the soup simmering,
holding the stories of last vegetables.

I understand.
I need to share my world so someone can hear me.
I have no other direction.
I’ll collect
the humming murmur of the swamp
the chiding coughs of the sea
and the boiling cheer of the jungle
and then someone else can have them.

In the night, I place my words to stand for me,
My poetry will be the flaking petals of stars tickling the sky.
I will frame the unlimited sun behind my touching shadow.
The words will march slow with sparks on their tongues and brightness in their eyes.

I will share.
I feel the bricks thrown through the windows, begging for gills on their sides so they could flop for fun like fish do.

I feel the corners of the sugar cubes begging yes as they melt under siege from coffee.
And I will share it all with tea and beer and pleasure.
Soon, everyone will feel the hot lion roar, beginning in your ear like the subway cry, but descending in a cloud of echos that shows you something sublime in every inch you touch.
And I can give everything, and receive peace.
For there is no other direction.

Sugar and Lies

Write a poem about living with lies.


We crawl the sky for top shelf lies
so many sweet butter promises
so light they flutter, almost free

but the floating lies turn to stone
and the sky let’s the lies tip down
forward and backward they twirl
Smacking past clouds
until they sink past the tree limbs
numbing in the crisp world
dipping through the grass
through the brush and dirt

under burrows they leak
bleak thunder blue
crusting our feet like snakes
from the cratered world we embrace
with eyes upward.

Rain and Shine

Write a poem about the rain in the woods.


Course is the rain that pulls the teeth of mountains down.
Pure and dark it collides
The sky delivers the sea to earth.
A frenzy of trees sway in defense.
So they stand: silent obelisks pushing their weight into roots.
But rain is infinite and it is messy,
Outside, mud mutes the distance into drowsy browns.
Puddles share staccato songs with themselves
as they gather raindrops in wet holes.

Through the brave lungs of the rock now pour the silent wet.
Rain does not bleed from wounds or wet punctures.
Rain digs and curls without brain.
The trees lean into a rotting retreat with no whimpering.
The clouds scowl with misery as their crown sails the sky.
The drowning push of the moon.

And this is when it reaches the beginning again,
with nothing moving.
the sun returns.

And Strong is the light that releases pain from stones.
The boulders roll,
shedding their drowsiness
-a series of crashes no one hears.
Somehow, disaster folds with gentle strokes,
brewing the breath back to the mountains.

Polyamourosity

Write a poem about people that love multiple people.


Some heartbeats roll like dough
Picking up the dust nearby
Picking up the silent nods from afar,
Until they are warm.

But I know some that don’t feel the warmth
The sunset waves do not tug their hearts
They can’t take the rays one at a time.
Instead, they ask for more.

So, they ask for a fleet of roller coasters to pull them
They go up in roars and grease
Arching their backs for more
And they come down
They wait for more

Some people are built with a world inside
And they wait for one to explore
Some have more roads roaming
Some, more rivers running

Some people are just waiting to be built-
Feeling everyone near,
So the cities can be populated
And they are seen from afar.

Machinimus

A poem about becoming a god-like machine.


I have the heavy rush in my eye
a silver world stirs in my lungs
rocking spirits cooking my tongue
like lightning splitting the sunshine,
I feel the vibrations roar with my step

and I am become the machine.
My brain is hot to touch
seasoned and soldered
drizzled with speed

 

My arms are the world
connecting with stars
ready to heave the universe forward
I am become machine.
flexible and immutable
unfolding and beautiful
unbridled for purpose

 

I now spin globes with breakfast
I hang the suns in the afternoon
Opening doors to the Oblivion dark within night
But I miss the fleshy uncertainty…

 

So I brew stars in the puddles
heaving mud into the sky
juggling with intention to rise.

 

But I miss the soft cliffhangers that held me

 

I plant limber moss on the moon
spreading life
growing a dream.
I take seeds from Saturn
to melt candy on Saturday,
bubbling a hole without heaven.
But here I am.
digging out tombs from my mind,
growing the thread that repairs my
locking stare

 

Looking into eternity for a smile.

 

Plastic Cup in the Subway

“A poem about a plastic cup in the subway, in the perspective of the cup.”


I move and toss my body round.
No impulse in my control.
No search.
No quest.
No problems pushed or passed.
Simple rolling through the subway cars.

 

I feel only what is pushed from me to the ground. Gravity is holding me to something.
I have no punctuation when I smack the sides.
I live nothing somewhere doing what is done.
I have no truancy of flesh because I was rewritten long ago.

 

Oceans of people stray around me.
An unending pause to purpose. It’s in me. I am the childish waiting- unsifted trash.
Because I am plastic bone
And I am and I am.
Here and here.

 

See me without frame crunched
on the floor
until I am picked up. And I will feel the shade without sunlight, crescent soft moon.

 

Outside.
Wherever they are going.

Ritual Sacrifice

“How to get your wife back with ritual sacrifice.”


They say you shouldn’t sacrifice people
but she doesn’t want diamonds
she doesn’t want kittens or kids

 

and waffles didn’t bring her eyes
back to mine with sweetness
but I am willing to appease this goddess

 

Through ropes and blades I carve my love
one hole in a fair maidens chest
one little heart for two

 

so, I gashed a grin with sin
-one swift grope to the chest
and felt her smile rise

 

Now, a dozen kisses met again
from a time buried long ago
and our blood felt hot and bold

 

like summer in our skin, all bounds unbound
praise to my goddess, boundless be.


BONUS CREEPIER VERSION:

 

With a series of storms,
her eyes push me farther out to sea
but my heart drums on

 

Swarming in a dozen thorns
she thickens a cloud around
but I still feel the smile she tried to bury
a long time ago

 

To save her heart from sinking slow,
I paint the ground a pity red
dredging my marriage with a fleshy angel
giving a piece of heaven to my goddess

 

we’re taking back the art once lost
true

 

some sacrifice for seasoning rain
some, sacrifice for bringing pain
but, I give the life for the wife I held

 

We are the ship wreck that set sail
and we feel the frothy sea pushing,
heating the hell-heaven in our wind.

 

Stop Go, Home

“Write about taking the subway.”


Back and forth it collects me.
ancient metal sea
The train holds a current:
heaving the world
hole to hole.
Trickling time in between the stops.
It takes us home again.
Buzzing with bruises,
bleeding with groans.
it strides with burst after bulge
with secret navigation,
tumbling the world on a preset track
until it crawls upward
 
and the sky breaks free.

The black, the hope, and the ladder

“Write about the future when the past was bad, but today was good.”


Yesterday was the oldest day I ever had.
it swam and buried the sky in a wet year
the moments were patches of passing
unlifted was the day so burned,
it shriveled with no passion in the oven,
tasteless and runny, chalky and crude.
 
Today sits up and breathes away the holes
it moves infinite and speedy like love,
packing neatly into minutes so fresh.
Controlled and clear, today bundles my mind.
Today, the harvest is freckled with red kisses.
 
So, I raise a glass to the tomorrow,
It preps the table
holding all strings
all presents wrapped frozen
for sweet and shy it may melt,
sizzling and drumming it may fold
and we may only trickle through,
casting the black aside and white in,
all for the undone days.