Sunday, March 17, 2013

I traded Alex some of his art for this poem

The light sits on ink and the colors of companionship
whiskey mingles with the pipe smoke smell on Alex's jacket.
Fading into the better borders of the evening,
Fragmenting edges of the memories.
While Courtney's songs sing out in the wake of the morning.

Early dawn springs and swings into the newest day.
Do you know the sound that love makes?
The sound that love makes is a wild sound a quiet
sound a silly sound it is the sound that rings out in the
moments when we are too moved to speak.

Alex. The light makes a ring around the night-
we are hallowed in light.

Thank you for the art you give to me.
The art of your being and hair and pencil
and where the light hits your words as they
speak of the windows that flow through the soul
and the night.

Thank you for the Light.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013


Greek Part I

Dear Greek, I loathe thee entirely
you are all that stands between me 
and an honors diploma.
Frankly, I'd rather have pneumonia.

You are my 8 Am terror, my one regret
you are the thing i wish i could forget.
Silently, I wait as each student translates
my professor always trying to find creative ways
to skip me- to prevent my suffering needlessly.

He knows I cannot learn it (though I try)
He knows he hasn't taught me (goodness knows why)
So we hope he'll pass me in peace,
and ignore his failure and my defeat.

I absolutely, totally and completely hate. Greek.

Greek part II 

Dear Greek, I am trying not to hate you
to know you must serve some good.
that every choice is tempting or terrible
till now I only thought I understood.

How tempting to sleep rather than attend
as bad as throwing pears at swine,
how difficult to conform the will in every day
to daily do this chore as if it's thine.

how terrible to diligently copy
verb tenses that I barely comprehend
and wake up early just to learn a subject
 that I will not need and will not understand.

To wake up every morning finding nowhere,
a redemption or a purpose unless
your strength be made perfect in my weakness
and my soul be more fit for lowliness. 

Monday, March 4, 2013

Sonnet: The Blizzard and the The Bride.

Where I'm from the snow is black and muddy.
Winter Springs up from the ground and all the
Trees are spiders. Spindly legs upside down
Not cold enough to freeze, winter just sleeps
In a dreamless void of damp forgetting.
The loss of summer is a heavy thing
And the marshlands never accept winters chill.
Not so here- the earth dies and is buried,
The Burial shroud of snow descends and
covers the sharper edges in the world.
In the dirge of peace and of silent joy
Ringing like bells- the world turns to dancing.
Cycles and cycles from death unto life
Turning this shroud to a veil like a bride.