Sudden ImpactGod gets a pain in HisSudden Impact1 year 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.
Organic Produce OnlyGod planted a garden because HeOrganic Produce Only1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
still likes those, and having
fresh tomatoes for spaghetti.
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.
Metaphorically SpeakingPeople are like books;Metaphorically Speaking2 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
full of stories and easily
broken at the spine.
Heavenly FatherOnly Jesus gives HimHeavenly Father1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
ties for Father's Day.
God is a hipster.God went to StarbucksGod is a hipster.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
because the Wi-Fi signal in
heaven is crap. He pulls
an HP out of the laptop bag and
rolls His eyes at the kid lugging
in a typewriter. He clicks on Word
because He never really stopped
creating – He has more furniture
than He knows what to do with
and no wall space left for His canvases.
He likes Word – His Word – because
it reminds Him of another beginning,
before time, before space, before everything.
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 Be1 year 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;
The Problem with OmnipresenceGod went to the optometristThe Problem with Omnipresence1 year 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
TithingGod went on tourTithing1 year 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.
GreenwareGod took a pottery classGreenware1 year 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.
GenerousThere’s this pressure buildingGenerous1 year 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.
OssifiedYour voice oscillates overOssified1 year 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:
BenedictionsGod joined a monasteryBenedictions1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
somewhere in Europe, where
the churches are old
but the people are older
still, overlaid hands sodden
with faith and speckled with dust.
He rose before the sun and prayed
to Himself nine times a day
among his brothers of the cloth,
who mumbled psalms into their palms
and knew they were heard.
Missed CallSometimes the dial toneMissed Call1 year 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.
This must be how Gatsby felt.The dock slats of my FacebookThis must be how Gatsby felt.1 year 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 –
A Lesson in ForgivenessGod joined the KKKA Lesson in Forgiveness1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
for about three hours,
long enough for a member
to spot the black flesh
under His sleeve and rip
off the hood to find a face
as white as a vampire.
While the Grand Master stammered
apologies, He smiled genially
and patted his shoulder,
because God forgives everyone.
The sound of an approaching train282 days into the yearThe sound of an approaching train1 year 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.
Correlation and CausationSad people are notCorrelation and Causation1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
poets; poets are poets,
and some poets are sad.
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.
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 Problems1 year 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?
Dreadful WhispersI think it’s the anxietyDreadful Whispers1 year 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 Day1 year 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.
My spine is a ribbon unraveledYou asked me to write your eulogy,My spine is a ribbon unraveled2 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.
Old SoulsDoc says I’m an oldOld Souls1 year 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