I write poetry. Submit a poem request and I’ll write the poem and publish it on the website shortly. Because, why not?
“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.
Now I scuttle with too many legs,
and pause for every bubble
drifting, shimmering, guideless.
“Write about strangers.”
Every bracket of flesh on this landmark
that we call Earth, is stranger once.
In every trail there is a passerby,
a clear pity on the roads.
We strut our burdens together,
in a miser’s maze of conflict
and heart’s lost verse.
We are the stones in the creek,
a lost collection seeking investment.
We cuddle our webbing fates,
binding our rattling fiction
into one pool of strange togetherness.
“Write a poem about how emotions are stupid”
I begin – on a crawling, uncalibrated distance
in a cowardly morning that grumbles away
in my numb dimness- unlatched from sleep.
because memories spilled my dreams
like the icy veins of snowflakes crying
and my tongue and skin go blind like iron.
My head teasing ragged melodies-
echos from last night’s smoldering sleep
like an apple pie unbaking on my pillow.
I begin unsteady because I feel,
the world, the touchless sunlight, the morning
is an ether that stretches my limbs like pretzels
encrusted with falling salt, unscraped by hunger.