Last Night’s Snack

This piece was written over the course of two days. It began last night and found its end this morning. Hopefully, the mundae is spiced with a bit of magic. Take a look. What do you think? Ever find your self in a moment, a trivial moment, a moment that, to you, is heavy with importace, an importance that deserves note.

Last Night’s Snack
The scent of bread
and old books,
fresh coffee grounds
kept in a dented can

on a shelf
lined with strips
of paper colored
with purple flowers.

Dust floats in sunlight
beaming through the window
as if heaven existed
just outside,

dust floating as stars float,
as planets and angels
through a galaxy
that only endures

as I now stand quietly
in the kitchen,
the white tile stained
with two splotches

of ketchup,
cursted now,
as dry blood might crust,
my blood, if last night,

I had clashed with dragons
rather than made a sandwhich.

A Lost Fairytale

Image result for pete and his dragon

A Lost Fairytale

I saw a lost fairytale
tumble across
the cold ground

as a leaf tumbles,
shepherd by autumn’s will.
It hid in a shadow

cooling the air stitched
between stalks of tall grass.
Somewhere, I thought,

where windows are shut
and old toys are stashed in boxes,
a child, who once shared

cakes with dragons,
has forgotten the monsters
beneath his bed still long to play.


Image result for vitruvian man


Riddles are souless?
In them, it is never raining.

Jane Hirshfield

I want to fill riddles with rain,
flip their question marks upsidedown,
use them as ladels,

dipping each soft hook
into the waters spilling over
the walls that have captured

the creature, pale and fierce,
that has four legs in the morning,
two at noon, and three as the clouds,

dark and wet, choke the sun,
beckon the wind, the thunder.
I want to ease the beast’s thirst,

slake its dry tongue,
convince it to leap
from its cage.


Often, my poems begin in a journal I always keep close. Here’s a page and the poem that grew there.


The tomoato
we failed to harvest

abandoned its vine,
tumbled out of the garden

into the grass,
cold and green,

where it lies bleeding,
torn, bruised,

crimson wet,
a broken heart.


Yesterday, as I mowed my lawn, I found several mushrooms spruoting like little men from the cold earth. They’re are pictured here. Anyway, a few hours of yardwork, and those mushrooms, encouraged me to write this poem. I pray it’s worth your time.


I’ve let the wind
scatter the leaves,
amber and blush,

watched them panic,
flutter like frighten birds.
I found a feather

tucked between three
blades of grass sprouting
from wet earth,

moist, green, like cake,
laid it on a fence post
towering above the purple mums

clustered as tightly
as the mushrooms
gathered in the elm’s shade

clutched together
a society of gnomes
yearning for the sun.


I find beauty and wonder in insignificance. Perhaps I am mistaken to focus on such trivia, but, for me, that’s where poetry thrives. I’ll follow it.

I snapped the photo shared below. The photo led me to the poem.


crimson, gold,

on the dark road,

flame that has abandoned
its heat to slumber.