May 26


(Based on "Hope" by Emily Dickinson)

Annoyance is the thing with constant wings-
that whine in a ceaseless tone,
and sucks the blood from your veins,
and never leaves you alone

Scrating itches that come from bites
will lead to oozing sores,
Countless swarms of futile fights
The way to win is to ignore

Like thunder before lightning forms-
in the humid of the skies,
Thousands gather before a storm
Your frustration is their prize.
Dec 05

When Winter Comes In November

November has its own sort of beauty

Not like early spring or late fall

After the first snow comes, a fine dusting of ice coats spindly branches

Slush fringes roads and buries the newest leaf layer

The air is tinged with the husky scent of frozen tree bark

The blue sky is stained a frigid gray

Forgotten harvests rot and freeze into desiccated shapes

Remaining birds huddle on exposed branches, their melodies hushed by a sharp north wind

Houses become fortresses of ensconce against a squalling evening gale which moans and screams at midnight

A thin sunrise sheds weak morning light on slumped dormant hills

The green mountains shimmer with the second snowfall encrusting the ruddy brown, revealing the national colors of early winter.

Oct 06

Mid-day Thunderstorm

An early morning fog curls around the mountains and blankets the fields with fresh dew.

Warm wind blows through the trees, and bright leaves flutter, then are tossed away.

Clouds rumble and clash in the sky, their war cries can be heard thundering in the air.

Rain drenches everything, making colors run into a patchwork of quilts.

A sunset as fiery as the trees pushes its way through the last of the tumbling clouds, casting blazing rays on a storm-soaked road below, and setting the wilderness-fringed hills on fire.
Jun 21

Lake Champlain at Sunset

The egg yolk of a sun had already dripped away

City lights peppered the peninsula, breaking up the hard outline where land meets air

The lake was a placid raspberry colored mirror of the rainbow sunset, fringed by indigo night

Fish disrupted the watery glass-like surface, creating small ripples

As the colorful horizon melted into the vast depths of sky, a large ghost-like moon rose

The lake now shimmered with a new pale light.
Jan 21


The sun was a halo of light in the south sky.

Smoke stained snowbanks lined the grey road.

Electric colors of traffic lights blazed apart from the monotone world.

The waters of the lake were cold and stony, edges frayed by the wind.

Cubic shapes of buildings shaded the city, red bricks drained of their cheery jublilance.

White snowflakes drifted down adding to the piles of slush along grey street.
Jan 21

Hanging from the Telephone Wire

I wonder how old those shoes are, hanging on the telephone wire.

Their laces baked and hardened by the sun, I wonder when their time there will be done.

Tied and thrown up high by bullies who wanted them to fly.

If your shoes are taken by that pack, you're never getting those back.

I wonder when the laces will break, it's unknown how long that will take.

How old are they?
Dec 08

Clear Sky Night

It's rare to have clear skys in winter; white sheets of cloud blanket the sky almost every day.
At night, the atmosphere looks like those in stop-motion Christmas specials.
The moonlight dances over the snow making a silk painting, but cameras seem to ignore the moonlight's presence and the images appear to be taken through a dark woolen blanket.
When fog rolls around the moon, every dormant tree appears gnarly and disfigured, outlined in the hazy light.
At dawn, the snow reflects a pale violet light, a pleasant sight for a kid standing at their bus stop, blowing out frosty breaths of air, waiting for the bus to appear.
Nov 24

October 28

Aug 17

The Tomato Hornworm

Fat and plump from tomato leaves.

Inching across on tiny sticky legs.

Stuffing its ungainly body.

Stripping stems bare.

Leaving only shreds.

It dared to show its face.

It was frighteningly ugly.

Not even birds would peck it.

The worm was gargantuan.

Flailing its jaws.

Rearing its horn menacingly.

A not-so-miniature monster.

Sentenced to banishment.

For slicing tomato stems

Enlarging its pudgy temples.
Jul 01

A stormy night

The humid air dragged in my throat as I scribbled on a notepad, not wanting to forget.

Heat lightning danced in thundering radiance along ridges of shadow.

A bloodened moon rises as a dead husk of bone instead of a bright pool of energy.

Fireflies charge their bioluminescent light in the sprinkle of rain, mirroring the sky.

The fan droned in the window, hardly sharing the cold blowing air with any of the house inhabitants.

As I write this true poem without my second pair of eyes, I can barely see the flashes in the warm ink of night.