June 21, 2011

Just a quick post to share a link to Windowed, a literary blog that features some great poets, including me, as of today!  And thanks to Jeff Barnes for encouraging me to share my work (you can read his poetry on Windowed as well; I particularly like his poem, Roro).


free verse
May 10, 2011

A down-going

We are falling through an emptiness of our own making.
In the pitch-blackest hour of our nights
when all the stars have turned their backs
and the earth has forgotten why it needs to turn,
we will crouch on the far-side of the continents
and unravel all the tales we forgot to tell
and let the unspun strands slip into the
steady sunlight and burn
so that there will be nothing left but
the ashes of us – the charred remnants
of the humanity we once were.
We were the humanity who once spun all the strings
together into the chords holding the planets in place,
those lines that let us traverse the nights as tightrope walkers,
our toes grasping at the unwavering woven tales
of ourselves that kept us off the ground.

free verse
April 16, 2011


Tell me I’m a windmill.
Tell me that you know my design
and how nature was meant to move me.
Tell me you know the words to say
so that I will turn exactly the way I’m supposed to.
Tell me that you can move me in the wind of your breath,
then prove it.
Speak the words that have been welling up inside your lungs
like storm clouds.
I am not afraid of your bad weather,
and that’s saying something,
because they could name hurricanes after you.
But instead I am calling every flower by your name
and kissing every petal that opened after your rains.
I am licking every rain drop off my skin
and I can taste you in all of them.

Tell me I’m a library.
Tell me that my soul is lined with Shakespeare.
Tell me that you want to check out all of my volumes
and read them in the dark under a sheet with a flashlight.
Tell me that when I breathe in my sleep
you hear pages rustling.
Tell me that you have walked between my bookshelves
and have found the back corner where I hide all the stories
that no one is allowed to read,
then read them.
Read me and speak my own words to me so that
I know that you know who I am.

Tell me who I am,
because some days I forget that I have memorized my own lines,
and I feel like a foreign country to myself,
and my fingerprints look like street maps
to cities that I have never visited.
But you have left footprints on all of my sidewalks,
so walk down my main street with me
and hold my hand and remind me of my self.
And when I remember the feeling of my own skin,
I’ll take you down my alleyways and past my city limits
and show you the creek in my backyard,
and we’ll catch minnows in plastic buckets with yellow handles
and whistle at barn swallows.

I’ll tell you I’m a cello.
I’ll tell you that you are making
every part of my being resonate
in swimming startime springlight music,
and I’ll tell you that if you bring a bow
and if your hands know what to do,
you can tune me by ear
and play me by heart.