Organic Produce OnlyGod planted a garden because HeOrganic Produce Only2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
still likes those, and having
fresh tomatoes for spaghetti.
Sudden ImpactGod gets a pain in HisSudden Impact2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
funnybone, but He doesn't think
it's funny at all. He bumped His elbow
on a continent once and accidentally
killed all the dinosaurs. He liked those.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,He doesn't write poetry anymore.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.
TithingGod went on tourTithing2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
visiting the different denominations.
They didn’t know He was on tour,
except maybe the one or
two parishioners that looked at Him funny
when He emptied His entire
wallet into the collection plate.
The Problem with OmnipresenceGod went to the optometristThe Problem with Omnipresence2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
because His eyes were full of graveyards
and tombstone-shaped cataracts
clouding His vision.
Sometime around the eleventh
century, the lush green iris of His
eyes had faded to the color
of peeled paint; then, over the decades to
The eye doctor couldn’t find
anything wrong, but he prescribed
a pair of bifocals to make Him
A Hierarchy of Things I'd Like to BeI would rather be stupid but kind, than intelligent but cruel. It goes without saying that I would prefer both virtues with none of the vices, but life is all about hard choices. There’s a ladder of preference:A Hierarchy of Things I'd Like to Be2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The cruelty of the stupid is born out of fear and ignorance. The cruelty of the intelligent is multiplied by their capacity for thought; they should know better.
I did know better – but I left the blade dull anyway. You swing, you miss, you swing, you miss; a nick on the neck, a lock of hair.
Dad trained me on logs. You split it right down the middle – one cut, two logs. He showed me where the arteries are, how to cause the least pain, how to use your intelligence to be kind when you’re being cruel.
You swing, you slice; red. You swing, you hit; the first vertebrae. You swing, you jump; right in the puddle. You swing, he pushes; callused hands on your back. You swing, you thump;
GenerousThere’s this pressure buildingGenerous2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in my chest that I don’t know
what to do with so I cram mason
jars with cookies, craft mix
tapes full of Americana punk, leaf
through used bookstores, looking
for a taste you never savored, songs you never
heard, books you never read and maybe
I can give you that instead of my feelings.
GreenwareGod took a pottery classGreenware2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and could have spun perfect
pots from the store-bought
clay the instructor found half
off with an expired coupon.
He could have thrown slender
vases on a rickety wheel
or molded leather-hard discards
into elegant tea cups.
The glaze on his biscuits
unblistered; His earthenware
free of crackle; no shivering
to be found on His mugs.
God took a pottery class
and made sure every piece was flawed,
and called them perfect.
Dreadful WhispersI think it’s the anxietyDreadful Whispers2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
medication, or the lack
of, that keeps my dreams from
being dreams, but not horrific
enough to be nightmares.
The images won’t linger longer
than a few minutes, but the tension
stays, a butterfly on my shoulder,
waiting to brush my ear with
a whisper of dread that sets my pulse
Father's DayJesus gave Him golfFather's Day2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
clubs one Father's Day.
Every shot was perfect, sailing
in perfect arcs over
the heads of the other fathers
and sons spending time
together at the course. His
son's last ball sank
in the water trap and He
laughed at the irony.
OssifiedYour voice oscillates overOssified2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the phone – now strong, rushing,
tumbling to get the words out; now
receding, wearing thin, tired.
The shoulder was built to
bear burdens, to lift, maneuver,
stretch – built to be a compromise
between mobility and stability.
The gash on your arm, eight
inches of allografted precision, nulls
the purpose of a shoulder – to carry
pain on behalf of others – and makes
my own shoulders heavy with
the weight of incapacity:
Old SoulsDoc says I’m an oldOld Souls2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
soul, with my postcards
and letters, and waste-no-words
policy. Doc says old souls still make eye
contact instead of playing with iPhones,
mirrors that stare back, and tell
us who we are by knowing
who they are.
Doc tells me I’m an old
soul in a young body, taming
wild Internets and bringing my words
to heel like a triple score
in a game of Scrabble.
That I was born in the wrong
decade, that I was meant to punch
typewriter keys like a boxer,
that the twenty-first century
wasn’t made for old souls like mine.
Doc thinks I’m too old
to be twenty-three, constantly forgetting
the barriers of my few years.
Like that I never wrote about myself
until he gave me moments
worth writing down, and cared
about the person behind the words.
That I learned who I was by learning
who he was, and drew a timeline
of intersection points where each
node became a poem, and each poem
became a stepping stone.
Doc unearthed an old
soul in my notebook.
Old like a favori
This must be how Gatsby felt.The dock slats of my FacebookThis must be how Gatsby felt.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
chat list have a green light
at the end, flickering on
and on again.
That’s Internet in small
town Virginia. So close.
So far from your Midwest
hometown, the one you left
me in, stretching my arms out.
And then one fine morning –
Missed CallSometimes the dial toneMissed Call2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
jostles when I call, as though
the other side was disrupted
in the ringing. When you don't
answer, I like to pretend it was
you, phone clattering on the tiles
in your haste to connect.
The sound of an approaching train282 days into the yearThe sound of an approaching train2 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
and I’m still not living, lost
in this urban ballet, this city
of blinding lights. We knew
a place where no cars can go,
where even the crickets
couldn’t be heard - fifty one miles
down an old country road, where the wildflowers
grow like frilly laces, moonblossoms
tearing through the earth.
You could feel the sky in your
thought out gaze, ignoring the stars
and drifting into five am on velvet
waves just about to break.
We don’t go there anymore.
This thing between us set
the night on fire but it only lasted
a little while. I still have that fire
smoldering in my ashtray heart, but
flowers aren’t apologies. You’ve endured
so many storms that you became one – I wore you like a bruise.
I’ll be on the next train to Vegas, dreaming
about photographs from another time.
Love is a smoke made from the fumes
of sighs – may as well buy another
pack. My lungs are empty anyway.
PuddlesIt was raining so hard that all I could see was the yellow shine of his galoshes. When he crossed the puddle on Rosenberg, it swallowed him whole. I banged on the window and managed to get my raincoat on before Mom took it away.Puddles2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The puddle was gone tomorrow morning. I took the galoshes.
WhirlpoolGod splits the waterWhirlpool1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
when He gets into His
bathtub – cold in one half,
boiling in the other – and lets
them crash together once He
has leaned into the curve
of the tub, relaxing in the eye
of a whirlpool.
Correlation and CausationSad people are notCorrelation and Causation2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
poets; poets are poets,
and some poets are sad.
Word ProblemsA is on a train traveling west at 60 mph. A is going to meet his friend, B. A can only misuse the things he has – A always buys a new pair of shoes instead of taking care of the pair he owns. A is careless with the words that compose his existence and is now down to one-hundred-and-sixty-four words; twenty-eight of them have been misplaced, snow taking the place of sleep and substituting happiness when he meant alone. A likes trains because they follow narrow, predetermined paths.Word Problems2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
B is A’s friend. B is the synaptic connection at the end of a line of thought. B has accommodated A’s trajectory points of interaction for twenty-nine years. B has owned the same pair of loafers for the last eleven years. B has been waiting at the station since one-oh-eight PM for A’s arrival. It is now seven twenty-six PM. How many of A’s remaining one-hundred-and-thirty-six words will it take to fill the silence between them?
TheotokosGod attended a Lamaze classTheotokos1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
with a teenager too afraid
of the judgmental looks to go alone,
and quietly smiled at the instructor eyeballing
the strange pair – a barely-there slip
of a girl and a gentleman with kind
hands. He led her to a woman named
Mary, who had her first child
at thirteen in a less accepting
time, when the condemnation
was worse than the morning sickness.
The Morning Star Concert HallGod’s favorite concert was a ‘98The Morning Star Concert Hall1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
jam session in a hellish
The producer booked
the big ones – Hendrix, Cobain,
Joplin, Johnson – one night
only, fallen stars rise again!
Saints they ain’t, but God
has one ear for prayers
and one for souls wailing
soul into a void with no echo,
no applause, no expectation
of anything more than their own
And when you’re top billing
in the Morning Star Concert Hall,
the fans are the only comfort
you’ve got left.
CornerstoneGod became a pastorCornerstone2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for a little church in the backwoods
of the South, nestled
somewhere in the Ozarks where
there were more squirrels
in the steeple than seats in the pews.
He rebuilt it from the ground up,
starting with the foundation He
poured with help from a member
in the construction business.
He bought nails and lumber
from the nearest hardware store;
the shopkeeper’s son painted
smoothed baseboards a pleasant
off-white while He worked
on the roof. The oldest lady
in the community brought aloe
for His chapped hands; her daughters
made sandwiches for the hungry
workers while their children planted
posies and peas in the garden.
When He was finished building,
He removed the weathered sign hanging
at the end of the road. The little ones
painted a new sign with stars and hearts
and tiny handprints pointing the way
to the Dogwood Homeless Shelter.
#OccupyTheTempleGod got busted#OccupyTheTemple1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
for graffiti, spray can
in one hand, red
aerosol paint in the palm
of the other, bleeding
My spine is a ribbon unraveledYou asked me to write your eulogy,My spine is a ribbon unraveled3 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
but there’s three sides to every story
and it is not enough to write.
There is no more music in me:
You bound our spines,
where I end and you begin,
but maybe you never belonged to me.