Gone Missing

trying to break bonds
just to prove a point
so many times dying to give in

like holding your breath
breathing is not weakness
still too stubborn to gasp for air

drowning in silence
nature seeping into cracks
patchwork at best
and all I’d share if not
for honoring the silence

you’ve gone missing
leaving a trail of doubts
unanswered questions
and too much silence




Precisely Painful Truths

it isn’t all precisely painful truths
found here in the tapestry of words
my wordly garden
also grows glorious hydrangeas
and roses alongside
equally beautiful wildflowers

but even roses have thorns
and some consider wildflowers
this gardener, not naive enough
to believe that plucking the
precisely painful truths of life
makes it any easier or more perfect

I prefer my unmanicured
and unruly patch
to the pristine beds of lies
properly curated conservatories
I shall tend my dandelions just the same


Up Before Anyone Else

mornings  meant for quiet
and                 coffee

dream storms have passed
in waking hours
our interpretation

while felines
bask in the  morning light
through windows
chasing shadows and tails

dear self,
seek inspiration
wild dreams
reflective morning silence


The Underhand

little petty miscreant
can look you in the eye
then stab you in the back
walk away with a knowing smile

you pitch a curve ball
followed by a fastball
looking for the strike
instead, you hit the batter

though it seems intentional
it messes with your game
not sure which is bruised the greater
your cocksure arrogance when you lose the series,
or the limping batters you’ve pegged along the way

shake your hand they must
it’s only good sportsmanship
doesn’t imply respect
for your underhanded pitching

but then again,
office politics have never been
my forte



Our Table

Come with pieces barely whole,
pieces no one sees, pieces that
crumble beneath the lightest touch.
Come as you are; bring yourself to our table.

Open the jar of broken hearts, the box of anxious
self-doubts, and a tin of numb; break off a piece
of not enough, while I offer up a cup of tea steeped in
memories and missed opportunities.

We dine on meager makings of mistakes and disappointments
burnt to a crisp, as we rewind the unraveled threads.
Our meal may not be scrumptious or savory, but
our gentle communion shall sustain us through
even the deepest of despair.

Here is where we come to be made whole,
poultice our wounds, give thanks,
find love and strength and mercy, all.

We each bring bits of brokenness to the table; bone weary,
figuring our parts, laying bare our deepest fears, worries,
hopes, and dreams. There are no wrong answers;
nothing is inappropriate for this gathering.

Our repast where all are welcome
even in silence to sit; come, share if you wish, be
unburdened, you’ll always find a place among us.
Come in darkness, leave in light, our table’s always open.

Lost Words

I had it then lost it;
the words slipped away,
silent and sulking.

Inspiration shouldn’t be so fickle.
As soon as I allow my gaze to wander
it vanishes,
no longer captured within the orb.

Words are slippery,
newly formed, newly born.
Once set upon the page or
given utterance, they solidify,
take shape.

I did not abandon them –
only sought to delay their inking.
Their song I had not a voice to raise.
But time is of the essence, and we lose
the words we cannot sing.

words {sifted} from among the rubble
and darkness brought forth
into the light

searching for meaning

in distance / time
(= speed)

refraction of light
allows us to see each other
clearly, but not

*the future*

this space between our two points,
the geography of your mind,
this vessel navigates by heart

determine the equation
for happiness,
graph it on the Cartesian plane;
finding longitude and latitude,
set our course.

The shortest distance between two points will always be a straight line,


I’d                                                                                                     rather

circumnavigate                                                                             the world

with you.


A Thank You to George S. Schmidt

Upon being asked recently when I began writing and who my favorite writers were, I recalled a specific book of poetry that I’ve kept in my collection for a considerable length of time and have periodically returned to throughout my life. I’m fairly sure the book came to me at around the age of 8 or 9, but how it became mine, I’m not entirely certain. Mostly likely I picked it up at a yard sale or library sale as I do know that it was not a new book when it came to me. Its pages had already begun to yellow at that point.

From the first time I read the book, there were a number poems that I enjoyed. Not every poem was of interest to me (as is still the case), but one poem, “Sunlit Yesterdays,” stands out in this collection as a poem I’ve repeatedly read to the point of near memorization. I have no idea what exactly drew me to this particular poem as a child as it is the poet reflecting on his life in old age. But this poem has always drawn me in. There are a few others I’ve always enjoyed within the collection as well. The book is entitled Random Rhymes, which seems rather nondescript and ordinary.


However, my most recent re-exploration of this book focused not so much on the poetry itself, but I was curious about the background of the book and its author. I made some interesting coincidental discoveries (exciting to me anyway), and I wanted to share them.

So the book was written by George S. Schmidt and it just so happens that he was from York, PA, which is only about 30-40 minutes away from where I live. This information intrigued me, and I have been digging for more details. The forward of his book indicated publication in 1928. I was able to find a copy of the book for sale on Amazon. Even more amazing, I learned that this was Schmidt’s second book of poetry, the first was entitled Vagrant Verses.  Mr. Schmidt was a business person and lawyer in York; he was born in 1861 and died in 1935.

George S. Schmidt appears to have had a sense of humor that I quite appreciate. In the forward he says, “I am transmitting this booklet to the individual members of the Order, and to a few other of my friends, at a time when their hearts are so throbbing with goodwill towards men, and their eyes to dazzled by the lights of Christmastide, that their vision is impaired, and the manifold defects in these random and disconnected rhymes may ‘to some extent’ escape them.” I find this amusing. It appears that he gave this book only to a small circle of friends (it was privately published) and told them that even though they received the book out of his love and affection for them, they were in no way obligated to read all of it or any of it for that matter. A man after my own heart, he was.

I am sure none of this is of interest to anyone besides myself. However, I can’t get over the idea that I’ve kept this book for over 20 years because it marked the beginning of my love for poetry and in part inspired me to write poetry myself, and for the past 15 years, I’ve been living within miles of the author’s hometown. The book traveled over a hundred miles to get to me as a child, only to land close to home once again.

So, in conclusion, I thank you my dear departed friend, George S. Schmidt for your many years of company. I have indeed read each poem in your collection, and though I do not like every poem, I do appreciate your work.

Infinite Loop

silence allows for
allows for silence

introspection’s grand
architecture dips below
the horizon

an infinte loop
in mechanisms of time
the clock circles ’round
ticking hours past

even the gatekeeper’s
locks and keys
breach immutability
by virtue of time’s ephemeral nature

imperceptibly entreating
all to dust
reposessing even citadels
of human progress
withering stone and steel
with elemental forces

stillness creeps in
allowing room for silence




Writing on an Empty Stomach

Writing on an Empty Stomach

Coming here on an empty stomach is good for the soul;
I’m hungry, but for more than just a good meal. Forget the
Filet mignon! I’m hungry for the words that come so fast and thick that you can’t
catch them all,
and then just as they arrive,
they dry up
and slow
to a
as the night moves onward.