Posts
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How Was It?
It was beautiful-
It was rushed like the people of New York
trying to arrive at their final destination.
It was long overdue like all the library books I store
in the corners of my room that collect too much dust. -
My Death Bed
I fear that after I have clocked out my last time
and rest my sunken eyes and watch the colors fade;
that it is not Gabriel greeting me at heavens golden gates;
but the frost that devours my soul and chains my body down -
His Death Bed
If you swore to me as you swore to God
that you would never die; and you would live
until the earth shattered and bestowed seven
millennia of bad luck unto the next civilization; -
Ode to a Woman
It’s hard to identify what makes her different from the rest.
It could be the delightful warmth of her skin
mixed with the vanilla scent that gently stains her raiment.
Built like the clouds painted by Monet; -
Where I Find Peace
In my catacombs of tragedies and comedies alike,
my preference is the nook in the section from when I was innocent.
As I’ve aged and matured the number of books has gradually -
Memory to canvas
I wonder if that’s how Picasso really saw himself.
Deconstructed shapes and primary colors,
All meticulously placed in their seemingly correct
Spaces on that subliminal canvas.
I wonder if when he looked in the mirror,
Loves
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Unbecoming
The streets have teeth and we hold our fingers with enough space for the others and drink cider on a corner where the ceiling above us blinks blue-blue-blue onto her tonsil-pink dress and someday I hope I never have to see it in a suitca
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january to july
in the months of darkness and cold, i never stopped writing.
i just kept it all to myself. every night, my own religion
pages of pen poised on paper, pouring my heart out
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Acceptance before Change
On September 2 of 2022, I packed three short sleeve shirts, two long sleeve shirts, and four pairs of pants into a backpack and left my house in Sharon, VT, for four months on an intensive expedition semester school: Kroka Expeditions’ L
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A Trapped Poet (inspired by Emily Dickinson)
I am just like her—
Trapped in a sea of white.
My mind is just as frayed—
My heart just as sliced.
By the glittering blades
That contrived all her words.
The letters of her thoughts,
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My lovely ex
I walk through the graveyard, carefully avoiding the flowers on the graves. It’s a yearly trip to keep up appearances. I hated coming here. I sigh stopping at the grave marked William Piller.
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Don‘t you wonder how they all were you?
See, the sea is crawling, over these mountain tips far west
and when I go away, to it
I see fiddling with my old hat
playing with the worn out shoes
with all the past faces, lying spread out on the ground