Tag Archives: poetry

Fog & Farewell

Next to the river bank, I awake

With the scent of death upon my brow.

Droplets shatter against the gray waters

As the ghosts of the forests lull over the drenched leaves.


Palms clammy, feet soaked in viscous mud

Eyes full of nightmares long forgotten

Staring into the ominous fog,

While the ripples guide souls to the crypt.


The granite rocks, lodged next to the split roots,

Resemble graves,

Soft earth ready to swallow

Another serving.


This river is uncharted,

Untouched by the wayward wanderer

Yet I,


Know where the delta lies,

Only accessible when the sun is gone,

Lost in the deep horizon.


The clouds come down,

to spirit away those who sleep in the woods

At the dusk,

Saying farewell in their final, frosted winter.




The last words exchanged

Came quietly through the hotel window

I mistook the chill for the air conditioner

Until I realized the machine has been broken.

Soft sentences coming from a hardened heart

A contrast between soul and spirit,

And yet, they both manage to come together

Clashing violently in my core

As I try to make sense of your silence.


Maybe it’s not for me to know,

A question I posed but the answer

Lies elsewhere

In the pencils on your desk

In the bottles of liquor scattered on my sheets

Or, in the clouds forming in our eyes

Draining our vision

Converting it into venom

A poison planted in our retinas,

Changing baby blue irises to virulent blacks

Unable to see what was in front of us,

Seeking the light instead of holding tight.


I know, I know,

You needed this

But, I…

Needed you.

Here we now sit,

Communicating with hands rather than lips

The carpal tunnel setting in,

Wrists popping and thumbs tightening

As thoughts are converted to text

That neither of us can translate.


The dark rolls over the horizon like a cloud of smoke.

A hint of fuschia rises above the tree tops as the night shares its first kiss with the cool grass.

A streetlight, a lone temple has been lit, even before the sun started to retire. The sounds of bouncing balls and laughter form a medly with the chirping crickets and dying motors.

I’m one with this place.

It has decided to use me as a decoration; what I must look like to the passing strangers.

“How peculiar that boy looks upon the rooftop. His hand twirls while his head looks into peace.”

There is an open window, his origin.

Little do they know of this place.

I have shared this moment with only one; an arachnid whose tiger legs and hourglass upon its back protect her from touch, but yet we sit…together.

She weaves her web as I weave my words, both spilling pieces of ourselves in an effort to trap any who would come close.

It has taken her the entire dusk to complete, but that is how she works.

For in the night, she will wait while the stray bugs find their way into her net.

Maybe, I’ve become her mate, using the light of the day to build so my creation can have purpose.

The Lighthouse

My foundation rests on the unknown,

Curiosity crashing against the briny banks

Stability adrift in opposite direction.

I am the sole savior that stands between a hundred lost,

And solid ground.


I guide vessels to and fro


wet wood washing,

Weary faces weeping,

Cloth sails, and drowning hopes.


Asleep I lay during the day


Until sundown,

When purpose becomes pivotal

Using sources of strength to save


I am a solitary structure.

Doomed to watch others set sail,

Never able

to best the unknown,

For my purpose is to prevent;

Carry from

Conflicting waves


Comforting shores.

Will I ever bear witness to

A sight

Other than the raging currents

Culling in the dark?


It was a poison in our veins.

Spread from my lips to hers

Paralyzing the present,

Our minds seizing the future

-or so we thought.

How we stopped living for ourselves

And began living for each other

Putting personal feelings aside

As the tumor of untouched emotions festers

Stars dimming in the smoke

The last moments drowning

For now,

We are but dried petals

Gradually decomposing

Our inner warmth fading as eyes become cloudy

with tears

Or with the death

Of a terminal dream.

Improper Timing

I feel the changes coming

Some fast, some crawling, 

And some that have

Yet to move.

They keep coming

In drones,

At the most inappropriate of times:

When one is writing,

Or dreaming,

Or loving.

We attempt to remain

Like statues;

However, even marble is eroded.

Fear not when the heart

Suffers the same fate as Jericho,


Change seems to come with the number seven.