Poem
This poem can be found in the self-published book, Passion Before Perfection:
Paper bulbs blossom into words.
Each leaf, a splintered thought that broke away
from the mind
that had the strength to plant it.
From idea to invention,
alphabet letters are scattered in the wind and left
to their own development,
having to contend with the jargon, slang and gibberish
that entangle,
and try to force the life,
from meaningful text.
Nurtured, and allowed to grow freely,
pollinated poetry will seed and spread
embedding inspiration
into the fertile beds of brain
that are open enough to allow
the winds of change to pass through.
Driftwood
The following poem was published in The Other Press in October, and can be found in the self-published book Passion Before Perfection:
Firm, streamlined features
caught up in a swirling storm
Branches fall
Chemically induced nature systematically destroys nature
and the broken nails
in the middle of it all
continue to catch on everything
that they can
Perhaps, they too are just attempting to ground themselves
The hail begins to pelt bodies
that would soon welt
All will not be calm this night
Windows shivering
with the fussing gusts
of an angry wind that will not relent
Rain gliding cars outside
reminiscent
of the ocean’s waves
that rolled across my ears
as I drifted off
amongst driftwood
in a tent on the beach
The storms had been subtle then
Now, at full bore
invading sleep
that they had welcomed
before
Titanic Thinking and a Body of Water
The following poerm was published in The Other Press in October:
Titanic Thinking and a Body of Water
Squinting against one thousand suns
that are glinting from one,
reflecting in water murky enough to stand in.
It’s a wonder any light escapes its surface at all…
The wind arrives and begins its stylist ways,
transforming a perfect hair-do back to its primal state.
Walking through fine sand, in the midst of expelled plumage
and vacant crustaceanic condos,
conversation always seems to ebb away with the tide
and thoughts are drawn into the water,
like the debris that thought it was finally beached
but was caught up in the waves once more.
Doomed, or blessed
to continue drifting,
occasionally reaching a temporary shore
until it becomes so smoothed and refined
by a relentless surf
that it is nothing more than a grain of sand.
No different than the millions of others surrounding it,
just younger,
and they have neither time nor patience for their fellow captive.
Although this may have been the most brilliantly beautiful of stones,
now, as a speck amongst specks, it loses the distinctiveness it may have once had.
It awaits the time when the water will have its way with it once more
and it will be pounded into oblivion…
…looking out as the seagulls
coast along the coast…
The present shakes its way back into consciousness,
and it is pondered
that these are just fruitless thoughts
when one is standing next to a body
that goes a thousand times deeper than any human could.
