you’ve heard the old story
of almost throwing stones,
how they dropped
them and turned
despondently back
to their business.
but i returned
a few hours later
and picked them up,
one by one, enough
to fill twelve baskets.
i didn’t know the crushing
of bones would be my own.
Category: Creative Writing
ceremonial
i was a rough rock thrown into a river, and i waited forever to feel the air again. you picked me out, held me in sunlight, and felt the smooth shape in your fingers, washed and worn by water and elements beyond my control.
prism
sometimes the soul does not know
when it shatters. strewn about
like glass, existing but not whole.
light still shimmers through each
piece, and the beams are broken,
split into streams of infinite color.
after
i once walked
through graves,
tracing names
on tombstones
faded from sight.
i imagined
bones in boxes,
separated from
their souls, left
to wait for some
kind of return –
to ash? to dust?
or is there only
the shedding
of skin so spirits
can finally soar
somewhere
among the stars?
interior
i wander
the road inside
my mind
near fields
once brazen
with life.
daylight fades
and grey
mist hovers
in the sky,
whispers secrets
softly
to the swelling
shadows.
progression
somewhere the light fades
faster than one would like,
not knowing if another day
will break. years are etched
upon the skin with lines
carved deep. but the heart,
fierce with age, finds a way
to shine on well into the night.
storm
the weight crushes
almost everything
except the dull ache
which swells slowly
to a roaring blast.
it rips the hinges
from the storm cellar,
winds its way deeper
down and finds you
in your darkness
searching for light.
** I have dealt with depression, and there is no shame if you have felt the same. Writing poetry is one way that has helped me navigate those feelings, but I also reached out to family, friends, a good counselor, and yes, medication has been a big help. Please reach out if you feel you are losing hope. Help is there. https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
the baseball bat
as a child i can remember him
slipping away from the house
into the shed, then reappearing
with a hand-made baseball bat,
one of the many he crafted long
ago for a forgotten ozark team.
they all shattered or cracked
from wear, and we believed
all were lost. but after he died
we found a bag inside the shed
under years of dirt and dust,
twelve baseball bats remained.
i keep one near my desk, still
smooth with the brand burned
deep in the wood like the many
memories of him upon our minds.
flight 365
the year is half-gone into eternity,
and time’s black hole does not relent.
what is this place where we believe
we can acquire anything, but always
leave empty-handed and alone?
we live in a slumber where dreams
seem like reality while existence spills
from our bodies like jet fuel behind
a damaged aircraft in mid-flight.
imperfections
under the surface
we are free. all spirit
and essence waiting
for brokenness,
for the slightest flaw,
for an opening
where the true self
emerges as light,
escapes into being.
* Written last year in response to Robert Okaji’s beautifully haunting poem “His Softness”. After reading it several times, the phrase “somewhere, under the surface, / unattached” stayed with me and prompted this poem.
Awaiting the Images 