Writing poems is one of my favorite creative outlets. There is something so fun about trying to pack meaning, obscure human moments, etc into such a small area. I also like that poems don't always spell everything out, which is the way life is in general.
Many of these poems are from another time, when I was in another place. But I still find time to write some new pieces here and there. I hope you enjoy them. And if you like any, I always enjoy some positive feedback. Cheers!
She shoos me up the staircase
while smiling
while encouraging
while prattling on
like a proud mother
“I don’t think I can”
Yet she pays no attention
and rushes past me
stopping only to point intensely
at the small X mark upon center stage
One spotlight
Exposing one, lonely microphone
(the focal point)
of a million eyeballs
One Moment
To stand my creation up
naked
in front of the masses
will they judge?
Of course!
“You should write a book.”
Although I always appreciated the compliment, but I could never tell if it was sincere or not. Was I really that good or creative at writing? Or was it simply like the words of a mother, who’s unconditional love was so strong that even a finger painting of a blue dog would land itself on the fridge.
Honestly, it doesn’t really matter. We all have things to share (thoughts, pictures, stories, laughs, hugs) and it gets boring to sit on the sidelines and let everyone else have the fun. Sure, we can be self depreciating and claim that no one will care or our actions won’t mean anything. But I disagree. Sometimes the seemingly insignificant things we in life can completely change the lives of someone else, whether we know it or not. And so what if it doesn’t? I’m not willing to take that chance!
He breathed the country:
Not just the manure molecules
conducted by the wind
ascending and descending
a hot air ballon journey.
Not just the pine pollen
creating a chalky residue
erased messages on car windows
authored by rain drops.
A deep breath in, my day is done,
At least seven times the clock has rung.
Begin my walk along side the sun,
while wiping dirt up off my face.
Happy? I'd like to think I am.
But I'm just an plain old working man
doing grueling work, just to feed the fam.
Odd jobs from place to place.
The tracks before me, just installed of course
took just six weeks with a ten man force.
Shiny steel rails above rocks so coarse,
gleaming softly in warm dusk rays.
Walking on the streets at night
dimly light by lamp post lights.
Ten till midnight, by my count
with not another soul in sight.
Morning meets my work commute
today's dreary grey, there's no dispute
Though now and then the clouds relax
allowing dawn's soft rays to pass.
Green leaves upon the summer trees
gently waving summer breeze.
Tis a vibrant park outside the home,
a hundred vets, yet he's all alone.
Oh surely friends will wave and smile
though blind, they are, to the fear/denial.
Tis safer that it's kept this way,
for the bench is where he came to stay.
Every day at half passed one,
the healing warmth of Florida's sun.
All is well till his face droops down
to see the leaves his eyes have found.
The empty cup with coffee stains
alludes to jittering within my brain.
Overnight travel with windows down
car speakers blasting punk rock sounds,
which angers homeowners as I pass
Her only sight, a red tipped stick.
That ticks with order,
click...
click...
click...
She fends my questions with a smile
"I miss colors like fish miss the clouds"
Ideas are like fireflies.
Beautiful—
with their faint, fleeting flashes of light across the sky;
or more likely,
the interior dome we call our psyche.