Category Archives: Poetry


Walking tightrope
losing balance
site of
the other side.
Walking tightrope
tight with
eyes closed
hands stretched
out in faith.
Walking tightrope
better not fall
tigers underneath.

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Connective Tissue

I don’t want to be reminded
of how the body’s put together.

Instead, I want to go back
to the days where standing up,
or walking were thoughtless activities.
Where there was no thought
to how muscle and bone
are held together
by connective tissue.
No thought to tendons, ligaments,
and sinew. No thought
to how a wrong step,
or turn of ankle, or turn
of wrist can send a signal
to the brain that the bones
sit too loose in their place
and move in ways
they’re not supposed to.

I never wanted to study anatomy,
or physiology, or to know
the correct or incorrect coding
of our DNA. But I always did
want to write. To have something
to say that might make sense
to somebody who’s out there
reading someday.
To try and explain
what’s happening to a body
in disarray, but instead,
I only seem to wax poetic
in the presence of disease,
and not to make light of it,
but maybe, to at least,
turn it into something it isn’t.

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Structure is a difficult thing
at collapse.
Bones slide out
one from the other
and perhaps they’ve grown
just as tired
as I have
of living in this
thin skin
that seems to lack
what a structure needs
most to stand.
And I wish it weren’t
so difficult
to discern the cause
of such a fall,
and that I could go back
to when the walls
around me
stood solid, stood whole,
and know,
the reason I’m now in rubble.

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Give me words,
in conversation
tell me stories
that I might
sit silent
in the sound
of vowels,
of consonants,
and how delightful
all your words
would be
for me to hear
roll off your tongue
as endearments.

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Every New Day

Oh, my Love,
you are like
the morning,
when the sun
first brightens
the day with
its presence,
and how
each and every
new day
is different
than the rest.

And oh, how
I wish I could
have told you,
how it felt
that first day,
when I was
woken by
your existence,
and how the
feelings dawned
within my heart
and than
reasoned with
my head.

And never
have I since
seen the sun
within my eyes
rise with such
that surely,
you must have
you must
have seen it.

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For The Faces

I forget,
that we
don’t get to
live forever,
and life
doles out
like it’s
writing a
and each
and every
one of us
gets to be
a character.
We enter,
stage right,
and pass
the lights
and squint
for the faces
out in the
and they’re
brief and
how momentary
our part
to play is.
And just
we exit,
stage left,
we take
a bow,
and as
we do,
we hear
it begin;
the applause
of our audience.

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Summer Twilight

Have I ever told you
how much I love
the color of the sky
at Summer twilight?
And how it will
draw me to the edge
of the balcony
to bathe the whole
world and I in fading
orange and violets?
And how, that in
these moments,
just before the day’s
brilliance disappears
into the night,
these thoughts will come
to me of you,
and appear, always,
like dawn on the horizon.

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Route 66

I like to think of my shoulders
as small corners
meant for your hands to turn
and take the wheel.
“Steady now,”
with eyes straight ahead,
the road runs smooth
like newly laid cement and
we’ve got the windows down.
And all my thoughts of you
are like this;
like a road trip across
a thousand different landscapes
while we watch for
prairie dogs and tumble weeds,
and have left behind the cities
in favor of open roads
that are no more than
two lane highways dotted
with endless yellow lines,
with time to take the scenic byways,
as many as we like,
just so we can remember
how free it felt; youth,
and how like a new rain smells,
we never forget.

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Deja Vu

So tell me, what was it? What feeling
in the energy in the room?
Was it the same thing I felt
as I hung onto the kite string
I had tied a key to?
Because I’ve tried, I really have,
like a set of lost keys
I’ve lost the memory to recall
where I left them last.
But to no avail, because I keep
finding the reason I tried
to lose them in the first place,
yet again and again,
they keep coming back,
like that moment one has
deja vu; of somewhere
I need to be; of somewhere I’ve once been.

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Who Rushes In

Song of my childhood
in morning sings,
perched on the branch
of a precarious tree,
and thanks the day
with songs to wake
from its slumbering sleep;
the World.

As does the child
who rushes in,
with tiny but thundering
barefoot feet,
and jumps the bed
where her parents sleep,
with the day so full
of wonder, of glee.

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