𝑀𝑖𝑠𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑛𝑜 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑒.Still, the ache is real—and yours not to name. Loss invites platitudes—tidy, thoughtless, banal.But sometimes grief plays an unwelcome encore,Egotistically offering just one more,Wrapping you up in a suffocating shawl. Hope often whispers in tiny, blooming threads—A name, a laugh, dreams forming in our beds.And then—a hush. A pause. A…
for Maren, who makes mountains bloom I admit it.Her beauty was the spark— The shaggy bangs and sun-kissed layers… The high cheekbones drawing my eyes to hers… The white teeth straight, the smile crooked and true… The frame both strong and lithe. But sparks fade.Her grace fuels the flame— The deliberate pace she kept among her peers… The learned cadence of…
A New England thaw held hostage.Colonial Ghosts folded into cold mistAnd bone-gray branches of maplesStill clutching their syrup. Frost-heaved roads—sap buckets hanging empty,Bare birches slow the season’s ache.Spring is barely an idea, hidden beyondCovered bridges just past the fog line. The sugaring moon is a coy tease,Like a cute barfly flashing her smileWhile her man…
Gifted with scars for which I never asked,Sometimes I feel like I’ve healed.Then they reopen—the licking starts anew.Things flow freely that were barely congealed. Do my stories differ so much from your own?Perhaps. Perhaps not.Maybe some of us are bornJust to idly let them clot.
The moon rises over Manhattan.Her fortified smile poured smoothlyIn a sea of faces, bitter and wry.Her syrupy voice, friendly and warm,Completed my cherry-topped night.The moon sets over Manhattan,And the sun stings my eyes.
Performative profundity falls flatWhen contradictory contentNames your true nature. Your talk belies your own talk—And small wonder why we balk.Your testimonial truthsAre wishy-washy and weak-spined.Surely you can’t believe we’re blindEnough to swallow that scripted sludge. Conviction’s more than catchphrase carouselsOr costume changes to match your mood.We weary watchers see the true script.Your fire fades under…
California love blooms again in Georgia soil.I planted them for her a long time ago—Poppies, little bursts of color for my SoCal girl,Rooted in red clay. She smiled at me that first time we met,Brightening and warming an already bright day.I stood there powerless, holding this fierce angel—Rooted in red clay. She smiled when she…
Charon sits, moored upon the shore,No lantern pierces the fog.A cold, penniless wake—Not even a ripple on the bog. The dark, still waters—Serene. Indifferent.They spare the destitute,But not the morally indigent. Ashes forgotten, sealed in the furnace,Closed to the skies.No breezes to catch, no currents to ride,No fields to fertilize.
The man on my birth certificate has died.But he was no man—A revenant at best,Chained to drinkAnd inhuman emotion.Hollow and bereft. He has died as he lived:Forgotten.