All My Heroes

All my heroes are
Dead or disgraced.

I look up or down
To no one but I wish
I could again.

The wide-eyed boy
Died with the dream that
A single moment - as small as it might be,
In sports or life - can change our history.

Submissions for Thrush

I sumbitted a few poems to Thrush Poetry Journal. The editors liked my voice but the poems were not accepted. I was a little sad because I've been a big fan of the publication and their use of social media. But, at least I get to share the pieces with you now. I hope you enjoy them.


Forged Within

It’s funny how one day
becomes a week,
becomes a month,
and soon a year
has passed where
we’re no different
from the last in
essence, yet
appearances will
tell a different story;
we won’t see the crows feet
Looking from inside ourselves
but others can and never understand
that every imperfection has a story-
laughter, love, a loss-
and we alone will see
true beauty forged within.



Pounding Rain

Cigar smoke
in the pounding rain;
her hand, outstretched
a distant light,
sifting through the plume
with ashy fingernails
she strokes my hair
reminds me,
she still cares
in hazy, blind surroundings,
Burning from the flame,
Her lips put out.

One Poem

I began this poem thinking about a friend visiting the beach and how I haven't been there for some time. Then I ended thinking over my grandpa who is very sick and does not have much longer.

and it's been years

and it's been years
since I felt an ocean
wave pour over me,
the tide pull back my sorrow.

and it's been years
since I last saw the moon
reflect on water as the stars
swayed back and forth.

and it's been years
but I will close my eyes
to smell the salt and hear
a world crash down on me.

A Couple Poems

Playing with Fire

Breathing the inferno
dancing in the flames
walking on hot coals
to you across the steam.

I'll Never Tell Myself

I'll never tell myself
I wish it were the past
and all I have become
has withered on the vine.

I'll never tell myself
that life has lost its luster
while I breathe and
feel my heart.

A Few Short Poems

Terrorist

You came from nowhere
with a bomb strapped to your heart
hoping to explode.

I write

I write because
sometimes it hurts
and I need love
beyond a person's touch.

Observe My Hue

Observe my hue
fading to a grey
and then chalk white;
written on a sidewalk
in the rain.

Cone Skippin'

We threw pine cones
in the river
like we were young
and years between us
had not took their toll
on our demeanors;
unfamiliar pauses
and uncertain glances
becoming our relationship
in spite of history and
bloodshed in the room
we shared together.

Age: A Country Poem

It's funny how this agin' changes men
We see the world inseparable from us
Until we realize that it is;
Liife goes on when we drop dead;
Only real change bein' markers, few flowers
And some tears shed for a minute;
Most of us won't be remembered
Most of them for nothing good.

Disorderly Love

This poem is featured in Ben Ditmars' chapbook of poetry, Night Poems. Available on Amazon for Kindle and Print.


Love isn't orderly.

It bleeds; it stains

In memories pinned up

On refrigerator doors.

Drawings and report cards

Stacked with letters, doodads

On an otherwise dull surface.

We sacrifice aesthetics

And our own reflection

In the glossy chrome.

Because I'm a Fuck-up

This poem is featured in Ben Ditmars' chapbook of poetry, Night Poems. Available on Amazon for Kindle and Print.

The words aren’t right.

They never could be.

Because I’m a fuck-up.

It all seems insincere.

I try to back-track.

Can’t convey.

It’s all the truth;

It seems a lie.

Because I’m a fuck-up.

My laugh is hollow;

Echoes off your face,

Retracts, jams down my throat

To choke me as I gasp, you watch,

Considering your next move; to save,

Or let me die.  But you know the latter

Has more solace in the end for me.

Because I’m a fuck-up.

Too Late

Up too late
to write this poem
or rhyme for you.

Up too late
to punctuate
my love for you
with hearts, colon
dash and asterisk.

Up too late
to see a solid shape
for what it is. It could
be you or me, or
merely nothing.

Up too late
to feel your touch
and know that I'm
not dreaming.

Up too late
to taste a taste
to smell perfume
and lose myself.

Three Poems

I've wrote these poems over the past couple weeks but haven't posted them.  They're more somber than normal.  But don't be alarmed, I'm still very happy :-)  See.  I smiled.

Truth

The truth is that

You never liked me.

Oh, you said you did,

Pretended well enough.

But I could always tell

A liar when I saw one.

And that’s just what you are;

Not nice; not sparing of

My feelings.  Just cold.

A bitch without remorse.

Marionette

There’s little consolation

when your hard work doesn’t pay,

and all that you put in stays put

in rigid forms, faint outlines

of desire; puppet shows

played with your heart

on strings. The puppet master

drunk and weaving, somewhere else

and crying out much like the wooden

figure he is holding.

A Legend

I was never legendary

though I tried to be

and failed.  I was at most

a sidekick, supporting actor

to a larger role I couldn’t fill.

I watched others do great deeds

and envied them.  But I could not

supplant them.  Danger fueled my heart

but froze my arms and legs.

The Rhyme

Some people tell you that poetry should rhyme

But it’s not a perfect world – there’s not always a verse

Or a melody when things go wrong.

Expression’s in our souls

It comes out through our hands

And might not please the ear.

But there’s more to us than that,

More places it can touch.

I feel words in my heart

The aching in my back.

Things I should have said

But never got the chance.

That line sooths a memory,

Second verse a romance.

Find faith in a stanza,

Epic or a lyric.

Disposable Friend

Used up, dull razor that you threw away –

you could have sharpened it but, hell,

who has that much time?

It’s easier to toss it in the bin,

move on to sharper, newer models

with less history.

Never mind the skin and blood

you gave, we shared.

It’s meaningless.

Indian giver.  Charlatan.

The labels just peel off.

But not for me.

I see you shaving with

your new electric whore

and it cuts deeper than four blades.

A knick to my jugular,

Blood loss, bleeding out.

Please, no stitches… let me feel!

Poetry & Song

The lonely ones write poetry and song,

Bleeding out their hearts through pen

They look to belong.

Nights compared to day are always long

Staring at the clock and asking when.

The lonely ones write poetry and song.

Verse will make the weak will strong

Next time, over and again

They look to belong.

Finding the right verb just might prolong

A twinkle in the eyes of women, men.

The lonely ones write poetry and song.

Minds chaotic, faces long

Holding breaths, some count to ten

And look to belong.

A copious and tragic throng

Composed of souls struck now and then.

The lonely ones write poetry and song;

They look to belong.

Wayne's World?

Wayne found Phil partied out again,

Lying in the gutter drunk and bloodied.

He and Garth rushed him to the ER

In the Mirth Mobile but –

He didn’t make it.

Blunt-force trauma listed

As the cause of death,

With hemorrhaging,

Internal bleeding.

Things could never be the same again,

Wayne realized going through the funeral.

He quit his cable show

And got a job reporting news

On scene for channel 10 Aurora.

Scwing gave way to touching story

Asphinctersayswhat became and back to you, Tom.

Garth hardly saw him while he toured,

And squandered money on his drugs and alcohol,

Eventually going bankrupt, being forced to

Sell guitar picks at a local record shop.

He wasn’t made best man

When Cassandra married Wayne,

Nor was Garth the Godfather

Of any of their kids.

It seemed the two had parted ways

Saying they would hang out on the phone

But never really doing so.

Wayne’s family didn’t get his jokes

Or references to Star Trek.

His kids pleaded when their friends arrived

That he'd refrain from using NOT.

But  Wayne wanted back his younger days

When he had dreams of things

Copious, capacious, cajunga

Instead of merely good.

Cassandra frequently chastised him

For old jokes at which she used to laugh.

Wayne called marriage punishment for shoplifting

And she didn’t talk to him for weeks.

Ex-squeeze me? Baking powder?

Got old like pull my finger.

Rating young women on

The stroke-ability scale

Had landed Wayne

Restraining orders.

It didn’t take that long

For Cassandra to divorce him,

After giving him his hundredth try.

But Wayne couldn’t quite grow up, and

Sitting all alone inside his studio apartment.

He repeated to himself:

She will be mine.

Oh, yes - she will be mine.