Reluctant Dreamer

Restless child, with pursed lips and furrowed brow,

Reluctant to partake in this nightly ritual called bedtime.

Seth

It’s not every day you see someone with sausage gravy in his hair.

children

A wish cast into the star-laden sky,

all of my hopes and dreams

for each of you, my children,

that I might have children,

(offspring given the right season)

that I may utilize the skills

I am learning and exercise the wisdom

in order to rear you within an environment

in which you can grow.

Release - Flash Fiction Version

I stare as Adam’s finger slides across the mouth of my wet, empty glass.  I contemplate his hands that make mine look like a child’s in comparison.  That is, of course, until I catch glimpse of something else: there’s a finger waving disapprovingly at me, and it’s the larger of two hands on my wristwatch.  Perhaps that’s my conscience scolding me.  I had played coy with Adam for some time now.  I look back and the glass is filled again, and I drink of it.  My watch, though still wrapped around my wrist it may be, disappears beneath the sleeve of my shirt.  Adam tells me the music in the club will soon play at deafening levels.  It doesn’t matter which of the 3 floors you’re on, it’s all metal music.  They call it the “Krazy House.”  A great place to get the wax knocked out of your ears.  That should be their tagline.

Earth and Sea

when I was overcome with stress and worry,
my waning waves washed upon your shores.
when in tempest my storms would rage,
you weathered the clashing climates.

More on Poems

For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument, that makes a poem—a thought so passionate and alive, that like the spirit of a plant of an animal, it has an architecture of its own and adorns nature with a new thing.
-- Ralph Emerson

Gus

Tripping over exposed roots as we scurry
through the world, like two thieves on the run.
I shouldn’t expect you to hold my hand, Gus,
not when life is something to be done
in a hurry. We can make new friends, again,
hanging out by the stump or some other dive.

untitled

lying beneath you
your eyes say things
that your tongue forgot,
or your lips allowed you
to say.
I, too, remain silent
and take for granted
how your nostrils flare
when you come
or how chapped my lips
get from kissing
the stubble on your face.

Release

Mr. Tock and his son Tick wrap around
my wrist. How often they’ve crossed,
I’ve lost track. I was busy watching
Adam’s fingers slide across the mouth
of my empty, wet glass. He takes my
hand and I’m now spinning on the floor.

On Poems

A poem, as a manifestation of language and thus essentially dialogue, can be a message in a bottle, sent out in the—not always greatly hopeful—belief that somewhere and sometime it could wash up on land, on heartland perhaps. Poems in this sense, too, are under way: they are making toward something.
- Paul Celan

Hopeful Weed

modest wildflower
in my backyard garden
standing among
white roses.
a snowball so round
grown plucky
under tended care
rises above the roses
to face the sun.

Adolescence

The violence rings in my ears
even now as I look back.
I can still hear the dirt
being sucked from the floor.
I held the vacuum in my hand.
My fantasy was being pulled apart,
nothing but small fibers remained.

Reboot

I've decided I'll use this space for my writings. Nothing special, just my feeble attempts at poetry and the like.