Poet Tree.

A thousand voices, each cry rang true

the poets’ voices all sang through.

A silent night, a mighty storm,

death of function without form.

The poets rose, shrieks shrill indeed

’til echoes met with scorn did bleed.

A waste of space, but some would say

that time itself could not delay.

And so, from fell branches swayed their words –

a noose bound tight around their fate.

A meal made ready for the birds

who feasted on the wanton hate.


Save It for a Rainy Day.

As rain graced the front lawn with its mild pitter-patter, he sighed as he turned his eyes from the window back to looking longingly through an old photo album.  The fact that he had a photo album at all already hinted at the amount of dust he had to blow off before opening it.  Eyes watering before he even got to the first page, he waited for his coughing fit to subside before attempting to make out individuals, years younger than they were now, on the glossy, colored rectangles.  He saw familiar pictures of him as an infant that had been embarrassingly shown to every family acquaintance, family photos at various scenic locations and unremembered birthday parties, and his dad’s transition for donning glasses that made him look like a human fly to lenses that made him look like a pretty fly human.  These were all just memories now; re-creating some of these events wouldn’t even be possible.

With a sharp intake of breath, he saw his first pet, Buddy.  How had he forgotten him?  A warm golden retriever, Buddy had been with him during his teenage years, loyally sitting at his side through all of the unspoken troubles that rebellious teenagers inevitably go through.  He remembered throwing the frisbee as far as he could and watching Buddy race after it, then laughing as he watched Buddy jerk his head from side to side trying to throw it back to him.  He remembered sitting on the couch, watching the television, and seeing Buddy amble along and plop down right under his feet – he remembered Buddy’s breath swelling slowly up and down against his legs.  He remembered…

He killed Buddy.

As he pulled into the driveway late at night, that foolish, affable, loyal creature bounded right in front of his car and the consequential thud said enough.  He ran out of his car without a second thought, but it was already too late; Buddy lay still, never to catch, nor attempt to throw, another frisbee again.  He forgot about how he cried as he held the cooling body in his hands, waking up with a blanket draped around him.  He forgot about walking into the house, shivering, holding Buddy in his arms, and collapsing in a chair, hearing what his parents said to console him, but not understanding anything they said.  He forgot the months spent in quiet everywhere he went, swallowing bit by bit the guilt that had consumed his soul.

He got over it eventually, but they never talked about it again in that house.  Buddy was in many more pictures in that album, but something suffocated the desire to continue reminiscing on the matter.  It was raining that day as well.  Suddenly, the rain outside intensified in volume, and it took on a more menacing tone, a rumble of thunder, a glare of lightning.  He saw the headlights of his car rove into the driveway, he felt the thud, the rain washed over him.  How quickly it was all over, years of companionship ended by an exaggerated gesture of welcome.  He missed his Buddy.

He had no idea how long he had been repressing this memory.  It has been decades since he even thought of Buddy, much less the circumstances in which Buddy had been killed.  He never got another dog, nor did he ever desire another pet.  He always felt pangs of melancholy echo in the chambers of his heart when he saw other dogs, but he figured it was just puppy love.  He sighed. He thought he had suppressed recalling the tragedy for so long because he took the life of what had been his best friend – turns out he had just been saving it for a rainy day.


Roads Traveled.

I’ve walked a shadow’s dance,

a letter’s prance, a mountain’s trance.

Lances, shattered spiral twirls,

fallen stars that sunshine hurls,

poppy meadows deign to bellow

melodies of churches yellow.

A song of sorrow for tomorrow,

dancing sprite a heart did borrow.

Pardon me, the ride’s at three,

I have not paid the rainbow fee!

Time to eat a panda’s meat,

filled with fury, tasty heat –

in a hurry, speak the worry

as I run to seek the meek.


A Night.

I am the shadow in the night,
a silent, formless, drifting wight.
To roam on end, denied respite,
this crow-black soul of mine takes flight.
No matter all the heart’s delight,
I cannot make these feathers white;
no matter all the heart’s delight,
this crow-black soul of mine takes flight
to roam on end, denied respite.
A silent, formless, drifting wight –
I am the shadow in the night.


Where Has All the Language Gone?

Perhaps from improper investment of mental faculties or a change in prioritization of the brain space I actively use, more and more, in recent times, it seems that my command of the language is faltering, and I’ve met an impasse that I haven’t encountered in all my years of writing progress.  For someone with a paranoia as severe as mine about my writing ability, the asphyxiation that occurs with the inability to pour forth language has me grasping about blindly, desperately trying to properly change course and regain possession of my words – and myself.  Without words, I’m firmly convinced that I lack any redemptive feature to my person, as my proclivity for procuring language from imaginative, creative space will be confined to the average thesaurus-leaning writer.  I don’t intend to sound arrogant, but mad? Perhaps.  The insanity that calmly usurps the blood in my artistic veins is beginning to produce inimical effects upon my competence in thinking.  Terror begins to beckon as I walk in a daze, unable to purvey the combinations of vowels and syllables necessary to quicken my spirit.  Guilt begins to sink in as I realize that this may very well be the penance I pay for neglecting the continued study of quality literature.  My aversion to reading literary texts, either for leisure or for academia, is beginning to bear fruit of the most discouraging variety.  All these words that I used to hold in the palm of my hand are now slipping between the cracks of my fingers, cascading down around my ankles until I litter the area around me with knowledge lost.

However, as I think more and more about my unhappy situation, I begin to discover the more dangerous adversary at work: pride.  Somewhere along the way, I lost myself and forgot that it was God who first gave me the gift I cherished and, to some extent, abused for my own personal gain.  I had committed to writing for God’s glory at the outset of discovering that He had answered a desperate plea for writing to come unto me, but as of late, I have been wayward in my intentions.  The pride that I felt, unknown to even my conscious self, was born of a free gift that God had blessed me with, and I have manipulated myself into thinking that it was my own aptitude that had borne me thus far.  But I have been wrong in thinking that.  It has always been God, and God alone, who has given me the words with which I grace the pages before me.  If I lose my voice in speaking for Him, I may as well be mute and merely sigh wistfully of times past, when my own pride of life brought me temporary happiness and satisfaction.  The joy I found in containing praises of Him within the circumscription of my – His, rather – propensity for utilizing descriptive tendencies slowly drifted away, as a dying leaf animated by the slightest of winds, falling onto the pavement.  As a reminder to myself, I write for His glory and that this platform He has given me might bring souls to Him; all other goals are secondary compared to this sole destination. May I not say this in the sorrow of my waning talent, but in the true and honest hope of bringing more talents to my Master.