Category Archives: Creative

In the Mountains

A beautiful world
locked behind a door of hate.
You ignored the signs,
but some knew the upcoming fate.

“Screw off!” was yelled.
A fight broke out,
some kind of way to rebel.

We are all family.
It’s a lost day when we are run by money.
An imitation admiral led the crowd,
now there was nothing left that was funny.

army
shots
casualties
victims
war heroes
death

These last few years my friends and I stayed in
the mountains praying, delaying, and saying.

No one’s right; the future does not look bright.
But as long as we worship God, there will always be a light.

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I wrote this when I was 16, that’s about the mid 90’s. I have several like this from that time frame that feel eerily appropriate in these times. I had a religious/spiritual tone to them as well.

War

In peace the sons bury their fathers, but in war the fathers bury their sons.
Croesus

You have to leave this warm state of oranges,
for a burning desert. The twenty years of service
in tattered camouflage, but fourteen years
since you finished wiping coarse sand off your boots,
does not satisfy leaders, wearing shiny suits,
starched shirts and red, white and blue
ties, sitting in clean, corner offices in the pentagon;
so they hand you orders for deployment.

On the edge of a brown couch, you lean down to knot
black shined boots, reflecting olive fingers, as you run
thin laces through metal clips. Next, you slide coat buttons
into each open hole, while your sons observe this ritual,
nervous and impatient, they ambush you with hugs;
their ages combined barely breaking eleven. You set them down,
and walk to the car with my sister;
she wraps her arms around you and squeezes.

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I wrote this for a class in 2004 and is a part of bigger poem titled democracy.

Leaders

So shoot us or feed us, Big Man. We are very tired. Feed us or kill us quickly–or else what good are you?
The Crying For A Vision

A man muddied, clothes torn
sits alone in a dark alley with shards
of glass around and stomach denied wine
drifting from an open dumpster. The man
rises to his feet, then empties onto
the sidewalk. He slowly drags one leg
after the other, passing buildings, each with
boards in place where windows used
to stand. He stops and passes through
the space between two factories. He enters
the first from the back exit. The man
reaches the foot of some steps, he grabs
the hand rail and pulls himself up a floor.
He stares at the rotted door with a tag
that reflects his name. –Five years earlier,

the man types, fingers rapidly pushing
buttons, at a computer in his office. He sends
an E-mail to the president of the company,
outlining, point for point, faults created
by a slight downfall in the stock market.
The man, hoping the leaders, like FDR,
can prepare them to prevent a major loss
of jobs. The president reads the message
like a tip from his business manager,
and spreads the word to other top stock
holders.– The man pulls a soiled newspaper
out from under his shirt and focuses
on a picture of the company’s former leaders
sitting around a table, drinking warm
coffee with the president of the U.S.

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I wrote this for a class in 2004 and is a part of bigger poem titled democracy.

My Painting is A Good Bye

I can’t paint, my words,
like a brush, depict
how I see you.

Your eyes, almond shape,
glare at me as I walk by,
content with letting me leave.

Those soft lips, usually turned
up, slope down, “see you
later” pushes it’s way out.

That face, a window,
your thoughts, clear in view
say, “never again.”

My last strokes, your shoulders
slouched, hands out of view,
body leaning away from the door.

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It is tough saying good-bye, even to someone who did you wrong. Written in 2011.

I Like You

I like you…but I don’t know
how to show you. I once shared
those feelings but they came out
unconfident. I like you.

I like the way you smile, it’s easy
and toned back, more of a smirk but
not like a jerk, more of a commentary
on your thoughts and calmness.

I like our interaction. It is simple,
we seem to agree on a lot. In all
of our interactions, about our class,
we accomplished and overcame obstacles.

I would like to get to know you
better. I think we could be
a great team and have fun, make
the casual observer jealous of our connection.

Maybe you know and don’t like me
the same way. I should understand
humans are attracted to different characters
of people. I might not be your type.

I like you. I am an adult male,
writing poetry like a teenager cause
I don’t know how to get
you to like me.

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I wrote this for someone in one of my graduate classes, it’s just a passing fancy of a poem. Sometimes I write to get a feeling out of my system. 2012.

Docked

Eyes locked through a crowd,
chains drawing us closer,
an ocean of people pushing,
our stare pulls us in deep.
Slow momentum opposing,
ineffective down currents,
inching together, hands raise,
fingers spread, then clasp.
Two ships docked as one.

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A silly, cheesy little piece I just wrote that I may or may not work on later. 2017.

Care About More Than You

As the rain gently creeps down the window,
it becomes a metaphor of nature crying.
Can you help,
or do you ignore?
My friends, the birds, are lost,
the poor conditions made it difficult to soar.

Did you notice the terror in the trees
when you cut them down?
Maybe you didn’t care
that you cause so much fear.

If you would only take more than a glance,
you would see a refreshing hope,
but you never give us a chance
to use the environment as a means to cope.
Do you care about anyone but yourselves?
You’re not the only one to live.
You never answered our call.
Why? We never wanted you to give.

Look harder,
you could see a good glory.
It’s obvious you care about one thing:
your own story.

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I wrote this in the mid 90’s. I can’t explain the way Henry David Thoreau’s writings expanded my mind, my thoughts. I read a soft cover collection of his works until it literally fell apart. I guess it reflects in the content.