The Dragonfly and Raven

The Dragonfly and Raven

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

The Way Back From Nestucca

There is a road that runs along
The mountains of the Oregon Coast.
It is serpentine, weaving in an out
Of small sheltered bays.

It is on this road one Saturday night,
That my friend and I ride together
In a stunted, yellow school bus,
With our coach at the wheel.

We were the returning losers,
Wrestlers coming home with no medals.
But we didn't care.
We were dead tired,
And we were happy to be heading home.

Something that must be realized
Is how dangerous this road is.
Not only does it require constant turning,
And not only is it a two lane highway,
But on either side of it is sheer cliffs.
One that spires upward, a gray rock face,
And the other a straight drop,
To the rocky sea below.

On the best of days this road is difficult.
That night, it was near lethal.
The problem was the coastal fog.
A simple, common nuisance,
Which held out lives in its hands that night.

The fog come on suddenly.
We were all talking in the back,
When the black of the night,
Was replaced by the white fog--
A mass of dark-whiteness.
It seemed to us to be acting
Like a boa constrictor,
Squeezing the life out of the bus,
Priming it for death.

It restricted our vision,
Making it hard to see the road,
Directly in front of us.
Then, out of nowhere,
A gigantic blue semi materialized,
Its horn shouting into the ether.

Everyone was quiet then,
Gripping onto whatever they could,
Hoping to make it out alive.

Monday, March 30, 2015

Helen and Her Lovers

There was a woman named Helen,
Who brought Priam's walls a fallin'.
Her looks launched ten thousand,
From her jealous husband.
The beautiful woman Helen.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

One Day

One day you and I will look together,
Back on everything that has happened.
One day we will sit together and laugh,
Knocking back a few cold Indianas,
And we'll realize how silly this is,
And you'll forgive me for what I have done.
But that day is not today Baby Cakes.
Which is why you are sleeping on the bed,
And I am sleeping out here on the couch.
I hope that that one day comes really soon!

Saturday, March 28, 2015

From Prussia to Russia

There once was a man from Prussia,
Who wanted to go to Russia.
He jumped in the Baltic,
The sight was erotic,
The young Pole swimming from Prussia.

Friday, March 27, 2015


Black and white sphere.
Teams shuffle on the pitch.
For official whistle they wait.

Gasping, they stop.
A card, yellow raised.
The crowd erupts in cheers and jeers.

Ball crosses line.
Leaving keeper in mud,
Gloves smacking  ground in frustration.

Faces sullen,
Twelve men march off the grass,
Knowing they failed coach and fans.

Nothing scored.
The league was lost for them.
But the other, victorious.

Thursday, March 26, 2015


Seventeen years ago to this day I was evicted from my watery home. I was thrown into a world of chaos, one ravaged by religious, political, and economic conflicts. I was also put into a loving family. Sure, I argue with them and call them crazy, but I love them.

I turned seventeen today, but I don't feel any older.

In the past seventeen years, I have learned many things. I have learned to read and write, to sing and dance. I have learned to love science fiction and fantasy, computers and video games. I have learned who I am over the last seventeen years, what and who I like and dislike. One thing is certain though: I will never stop learning, never stop exploring who I am, and what I believe.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

The Ditch

Dark, Dank
Despairing ditch.
Demons dwell in the deep.
Taking souls of those who come close.

Sleep Well, Bloody Bird

Dark is the night.
My eyes flutter,
Collapsing with exhaustion,
Conceding the fight.

My head falls.
A cannonball assaulting a sandy shore,
It sinks into the feathery folds of my pillow,
Finding, finally, a point of rest.

A man materializes.
Sand spills from pouches at his waist.
He applies arcane powder to the lids of my eyes,
And fades into shadow.

Slumber slowly surrounds my mind,
A slithering snake.
I cast off the bindings of consciousness,
Allowing it to devour me.



The snake recoils,
The sand falls from my face,
I rejoin reality.

Bloody bird chirping,
Disrupting the wee hours of the morn.
I repeat the ritual of rest.
Only to be awakened again.

And again.

And again.

Bloody Bird!

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

There is a Problem

There is a problem in this country. A problem that is so deeply entrenched that it will be difficult if not impossible to weed out. This problem is selfishness.

This problem is not a new one, in fact it is an old one. This problem has existed since the birth of our nation all of those years ago. It has existed since we decided to dump tea in the Boston Harbor. It has existed since we first settled at Plymouth Rock. But back then it wasn't a problem. Back then, it was a force for good.

Manifest Destiny is what we called this problem then. It is how we justified the relocation of the people who lived here before we came by boat from Europe. Savages, we called them. This is our land by right. And so we made them move, or we slaughtered them like one would pigs being primed to become bacon. The Trail of Tears and the Massacre at Wounded Knee. Through it all, they proved more civilized than we.

Like the Native Americans, we used this problem of ours to justify the subjection of many other peoples. It is how we were able to enslave millions of Nigerians and Liberians, of Gabonese and Congolese. It is how we were able to treat human beings as less than dogs, and how we were able to turn water cannons powerful enough to strip away skin on innocent children.

Now, selfishness is rearing its ugly head again, for it is a monster that can never truly be killed. Look at how we treat immigrants. Look at the hardworking Mexicans, Cubans, and other Latinos who are doing our dirty work. They are taking the jobs that we don't want to work, for wages that we would never accept, and causing us no trouble. Yet we see them as thieves, coming to steal jobs for Americans. We fight them at every turn, and yet, the only reason that they are even in the United States is because we destroyed their economies through our selfish, protectionist trade policies.

It is selfishness that allows for Americans to sit in their homes, using up more than their fair share of oil and gas and water while there are people in other parts of the world that have none of those things. It is selfishness that Americans are projecting when they buy products made by children in sweatshops in China. It is selfishness that they are showing when they support governments in the Middle East that openly suppress women and anyhow who opposes them.

There is a problem in this country, and that problem is selfishness. There is only one way to fix that problem, and that is through education.

Education is the silver bullet. It can battle poverty and unemployment. It can advance technology and the arts. It even helps the damned economy.

Republicans say it is a waste of time. It is a waste of time and money and it has failed to work thus far. And to that I say, sit down. The problem is not that education doesn't work, it is that it is not being funded nearly well enough. Education is what we should be spending the most on in this country. We should follow in the example of our Scandinavian Cousins, and make being a teacher the most desirable position there is. Teachers should be making six-figure salaries. Yes, it will be expensive and it should be expensive. So is the military, which we spend over half our money on, and its soul goal is keeping the US the best through force. Its selfish. We need a change.

Monday, March 23, 2015

Exactly Midnight

The sun, a radiant inferno, makes its way through the sky.
As it reaches the end of its arc, it begins to fuse with the horizon.
Oranges and yellows, purples and blues.
Appear at the point of fusion.
The sun continues onward, and it is quickly enveloped by the watery horizon.
So passes the day away into the night.

In the east, over the mountains covered with tall evergreens,
Shines the twinkling of a light.
It is not the light of the sun.
No, it is a pure, white light.
An hour passes, and she reveals herself,
Revealing to everyone below her full glory.

Her light is weaker than that of the sun,
But she is loved just the same.
Beside her there are many twinkling lights,
The lights of far away worlds.

Following the same path as the sun,
The moon moves in an arc through the sky.
At its apex,
Exactly at midnight,
It happened.

It was as if the hands that held the moon in place had suddenly let go.
The moon went dark,
Becoming a large, black orb,
One that was getting bigger and bigger.

Then the sky was ablaze.
Large balls of fire fell to the Earth.
Of course, it fell too.
It got closer and closer.
It got bigger and bigger.
Until finally,

Sunday, March 22, 2015

The Shower Walk

I twist the faucet of the water off,
Throwing my dishrag into the white sink.
In the front of the booth people part,
Jamming to beats much like those of the Dead.
I exit the kitchen, making my way
Behind the stage on a narrow trail,
Passing through a circle of smokers,
I make my way to my one-person tent.
I grab my towel and a change of clothes,
And start my adventure to the showers.

I weave my way through the crowd of dancers,
Leaving the pocket of people and noise,
I find myself on the main pathway.
As I make my way from the crowded booth,
The sounds of drums and guitars quickly fade,
As does the ambient light of lanterns,
Leaving only the occasional flames
of scattered beeswax candles and torches.
Unlike the booth, the main pathway is sparse.
Every once and a while there are
Small clumps of people talking or dancing,
But they are nothing like that of my booth.

Having forgotten to bring my own light
I had to make my way by memory.
After walking over Jill's crossing,
I came upon a schizophrenic light.
Hundreds of small green lasers quickly danced,
Moving in random patterns on the ground,
Cast from a large fir tree above the path.

Continuing on, I pass by a rave,
One with no noise. People dancing. Silent.
There shone several colored flashing lights,
The only disturbances of the night.

After the rave of silence come I on,
A stretch of blackness, no lanterns in sight.
The stars and moon blotted out by the trees.
I could hear whispers from people unseen,
And the ramblings of a drunken man.
I walked for a time on this darkest path,
Having no sense of smell or sight or sound,
Feeling only my feet upon the path.
Aching from their continuous labor.

Finally, I reached the end of the dark,
Finding myself in an open meadow.
Here the heavens above gave light to man.
Many small clusters of friends and strangers,
Some are engaged in small conversations,
While others make passionate, moonlit love.
It is a wondrous place, suspended.
The laws of time and space having no sway.

Just a bit past the beautiful meadow,
I finally reached my destination.
I walk up to an old, smiling woman.
I hand to her one of my work vouchers,
And put my things in a wooden cubby,
And then I step up to a shower head,
Twisting the faucet on, letting water--
Water that is clean and warm,
Flow over my naked, dusty body.

Saturday, March 21, 2015

Clash of Titans

A poem comprised of many haikus stringed together.

There was a battle
Fought between two grand armies
Atop a great hill.

The battle was one
Of two ideologies.
The West versus East.

One army advanced
In tanks of red, white, and blue.
Fighting for freedom.

The other army
Flew the Soviet banner.
The Red Communists.

Opposite forces
Meet on the field of battle
Atop a great hill.

The Yanks fired first,
Mortar shells flew o'er the hill,
Landing on the reds.

The response was quick.
Soviet tanks fired back,
Blackening the sky.

The battle went on.
It went on for days and days,
'Till there was nothing.

In modern warfare,
As the Yanks and Reds both learned,
No one ever wins.

Friday, March 20, 2015

A Summer's Afternoon in Chela Mela

The sun was high in the clear azure sky.
I sat in the middle of a grass field,
Under the shadow cast by a large oak,
The large oak that I was leaning against.
The summer sun brought a sweltering heat,
That was relieved only by a cool breeze.
And on this Summer's afternoon sat I,
With a journal in one of my two hands,
And a trusty old Bic in the other.
It was simply too nice to try to write,
All of my thoughts turnéd into a mush,
Like that of my mom's homemade applesauce.
Resistance was futile, that I could see.
So I gave into the warm Summer's day,
Closing the lids of my eyes, feeling peace.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

Sal and a Twenty-Two Cal

There once was a twenty-two cal,
Which belonged to a guy naméd Sal.
Hammer was cocked.
It was a shock,
As the bullet went through the heat of Hal.

A Man From Peru

There once was a man from Peru,
Who could only think clear when he did screw.
He'd pull down his pants,
Fall in a trance,
Until the old perv got the clap-a-roo.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

A rewriting of Lewis Carroll's "Jaberwocky"

A rewriting of Lewis Carroll's "Jaberwocky."

'Twas temperate, and the shameless whores
Did peddle and pander in the ring
All lustful were the troubadours;
And the mid two shagging.

Monday, March 16, 2015

The Old Man on the Hill

On desolate hill above a small town there stands a house. It is old and disheveled, with shingles missing from the roof, and the white paint is faded. As one approaches the house, they must first walk up a paved stoned path, made of river-rock taken from a small creek several miles west. The path is not completely even, though it is even enough to not cause trouble for the inhabitant of the house. There is no road connection to the small, lonely building, as the owner never cared for the hustle and bustle of the post-war society. No, he preferred instead to use the legs his maker had given him, taking a pleasant half-mile or so walk down to the town below.

Once one is on the stone path, and at the top of the hill, they come across a waist high dry stone wall, with a plain brown picket fence style gate. Past the gate, there is a space for a large garden, one that has not existed for some time. Now all that remains is a jungle of dandelions and chickweed and clovers. In the tangle of green lie patches of yellow celandine and white daisies. Slow worms can be seen slithering in the high grass, though they keep to themselves.

Once one is through the garden, one will find themselves at the front door of the house. Upon rapping on the door with a small brass knocker, one will find themselves facing an old man wearing a tan woolen sweater with gray tweed pants and jacket. He is hunched over slightly, and in his left hand is a dark-stained birch derby cane. He smiles warmly, crooked, yellow teeth visible. He has thin, wire-framed glasses over his kind blue eyes. His name is Thomas Evans, and this is the story of his end.

* * *

It was a warm summer's afternoon when it happened. The sun was nearing the end of its arc through the sky, as Apollo prepared to end his day of labour. Warblers and larks could be heard chirping away happily, minding their own business. In his house, Thomas Evans is making tea. He takes his pot of boiling water off of the stove, and begins to pour it into a small teacup. A sharp pain in the chest strikes Thomas, and he sets the pot down. He stands there, doubled over in his kitchen, clutching his chest. Then, there comes a series of raps at the door.




Still hunched over, Thomas makes his way over to the front door, opening it. As he did, all of the lights in his house went out, like the flame of a candle blown out at night. At his door is a tall, skinny man dressed in an all black suit. His skin is pale, and the only color he has is a single red rose in the breast pocket of his jacket. He carries a candle lantern in one hand, and in the other he holds a black pocket-watch inlaid with gold in the shape of skull. On his shoulder is perched a jet-black raven, which calmly stares at Thomas.

“Who are you?”

“I am Michael.”

“How can I help you Michael?”

Michael grins, “Oh Thomas Evans, I am not here for your help. I am here to help you. Come, let us walk together.”

Thomas trusted this stranger, though he did not know why. He felt as if Michael was a good person, and that he meant no ill will. Closing his door, Thomas followed Michael into his garden, through the brown picket-fence like gate, and down the paved stone road. The trail made its way into a small wood that bordered the town below Thomas' house. They were about halfway down the trail when Michael turned onto a dirt path, one that Thomas had never seen before. But he followed the man in black anyway. There was just something about the man, something that compelled Thomas to follow him.

Finally, after many twists and turns, they came to a large stone wall at the wood's edge. The wall was of the same dry stone that he had at his home, though it was several heads taller than he. In the center of the wall was a large iron gate, which Michael opened. Beyond the gate was the blinding light of the sun. It was so bright that Thomas could not see beyond the wall. Michael gestured for him to continue. Bowing his head slightly, he thanked Michael, stepping into the light.

* * *

Several days later, when people in the town noticed that Thomas had not been down for a good while, a constable was dispatched to check on him. They found him lying on his kitchen floor, teapot fallen, its contents strewn over the floor. They tore down his home, replacing it with a cemetery, where they buried him. While they built a new road to service it, the city kept the old stone road. More often than not, you can still see the people of the town walking up the weathered stone road to visit the cemetery to this day, bringing flowers for the departed.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

The Perfect Girl

She was the perfect student. Well, almost perfect. She was senior class president and her class valedictorian. She was in calculus and physics and college level English. She was an athlete, the star of the softball field. In the Fall, She was a thespian, the lead of the Fall play. In the Winter, She put on her protective goggles and acted as lead engineer for her school's robotics team. She had been accepted to every university she had applied to, and had even earned a full ride from Stanford. It was clear to everyone that she was destined to go places.

That is because no one knew about her secret. You see, one night after a softball game, She was giving one of her teammates a ride home, and She decided to take a detour to a one-room, abandoned house on the edge of town. Both girls stepped out of the car—a yellow Volkswagen Bug. Her friend was reluctant at first, but she was an extremely persuasive person.

Once her friend was inside, She closed and locked the door. “So,” She said. “Why did you do it Haylee?”

“Do what?”

“Why did you make me look like a fool on the field?”

“What do you mean?” Fear creeping into her voice.

“You threw me the ball when I wasn't looking in the fourth inning, when we had two outs. How could you forget that?”

“It was just a mistake. I'm sure no one remembers. I mean, I didn't.”

She glared at her teammate, “I am sure there were scouts there. Besides, I noticed.”

“Okay, jeez. I'm sorry.”

“So am I Haylee, so am I,” She said, striking her in the head with a rusty pipe. Haylee dropped immediately to the floor, unconscious. She quickly went to the only furniture in the room, an armoire. She opened it, and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, putting it in Haylee's hand. Then she brought out a large kerosene lantern. She lit it, and then pushed it onto its side next to Haylee. Quickly, She left the house, and pulled away from the derelict shack.

Later, when they found the remains of Haylee in the ruins of the house, the police came to talk to Her. She told them that Haylee had asked Her to drop her off nearby the house, though She had no idea where Haylee was going to go. The police questioned her several times after, but in the end, they dropped their investigation into Her. The death of Haylee was ruled an accident, caused by a lantern being knocked over by the drunken girl.

Saturday, March 14, 2015

The Clearing

I walk out into the clearing. It is dark out now, though small flickering flames of swaying lanterns provide pockets of light throughout the meadow. I meander my way through the clumps of people, those lying on the ground, looking up to the heavens, admiring distant worlds. Those who stand, talking and laughing. Telling stories. And then those who make passionate love in the darkness, unashamed of what they are doing.

Finally, I find a nice patch of grass to sit down on, putting me into a circle of five strangers. Yet, we felt like we knew each other--like we were friends.

They welcome me into their group, and we talk about all sorts of things. We talk about ourselves, and what we do. We talk about the stars and the Earth and anything that comes across our minds. The peace pipe is offered, and we all partake in smoking the indica being shared. Soon, our minds are clouded by the tendrils of the cannabis. We find that we cannot stop laughing. We find that we are getting closer and closr to each other, until we are all lying together as one mass. Soon enough, we join the others who were making love in the dark, blowing out the flame of our lantern.

Friday, March 13, 2015

Red, Delicious

She pulled her out of the bag, and placed her on a chopping block.

Laying her on her side, she presses the cold stainless steel blade of her butcher knife into her, breaking the skin, and sinking into the flesh. Slowly, blood begins to flow from the openings.

Then she grabs each half of her, and scrapes out the innards of each one, throwing the children into a trash bin.

She then slams the halves back on the block, hacking them into many small pieces.

Setting her knife aside, she grabs one of the many apple slices, and pops it in her mouth.

The Tabby in the Meadow

Once there was a tabby cat, who lived within a meadow. The Tabby had lived in the meadow for a long time. As is the way of things, he spent most of his time hunting mice and other small rodents. Anyone who looked at this would see things as normal. What they didn't know is that the Tabby was extremely lazy. He was also very cunning, and devised a scheme to not have to hunt anymore.

In started on a nice Summer day, the sun providing warmth to the little creatures of the meadow. Usually, the Tabby would be stalking through the tall grasses, tracking his prey. Today though, he was ready to lay his trap. Instead of hunting, he went to the middle of the meadow, and laid upon the great-rock. Upon the rock, the Tabby was in full view of the entire meadow. Now, he waited.

At first, the mice were suspicious, and rightfully so. The Tabby existed to kill them, to eat them. But now he was laying on the great-rock, seemingly without a care in the world. After much debate, the mice decided to approach the Tabby. When they reached him, they asked what he was doing.

The Tabby smiled, and told the mice that he was tired of hunting them. He was tired of eating mice, and wanted to be their friends. Naturally, the mice were distrustful. Why should they believe the Tabby? However, mice are not the most cunning of beasts, and quickly began to believe the Tabby. They brought him food from their stores: berries, roots, nuts, and whatever else they had managed to gather. How good it was to have the Tabby on their side!

What the mice didn't know was that this was all a part of the Tabby's plan. While he didn't like the food that they brought him, it was food. It was a small price to pay in order to gain the trust of the mice. Soon, they began to sleep with him, enjoying the warmth given off by the Tabby. Soon, he would be able to spring his trap.

It was night when he pounced, about a week after he renounced his coveting of mice flesh. The mice had gone back to their homes to sleep, but a few had stayed with him. One by one, the Tabby ate them whole. None of them were able to make a sound, and when the rest of the mice returned in the morning, the Tabby feigned ignorance. The mice trusted him, and nothing more of it was said. For the next week, the Tabby ate more and more of the mice, until only a few were left.

The remaining mice were frightened, and rightfully so. All of their friends and family were dead. At this point, they saw the Tabby as a protector. They begged him to save them, to watch over them in the night. The Tabby agree to watch them that night, and to stop whatever was killing them. Grateful, they drifted to slumber.

Now, with the last of the mice before him, the Tabby grinned. He had won. Then, he opened his jaw, and began his feast.

-One does not have to be agile or strong to get what they desire, only quick of mind.

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Dark Was the Night

The night was black as he crept through the expansive halls of the manor. He looked down, admiring the Italian marble floors. It was becoming apparent that the owners of the house had more money than the average person of wealth. He put himself against the last door on the left, a large door, made of ancient oak.

He was hired to eliminate the occupants of the house. They were cousins to the boss, who wanted was worried about them squealing his transgressions with the law. He made the sign of the cross, and slowly opened the door. Inside, lay his target, and his wife. Slowly, the man moved in, and slit their throats.

The task was grizzly, but he did it well. On his way out, he covered the two up. There was no need to have them so naked before the whole world. Then, he heard the cry of a young child. He turned, to find a toddler, standing up in her crib in the corner. Knowing what he must do, he went up to the child and thrust with the knife, disemboweling her.

He left the house then, disgusted with what he had done. When he opened the back kitchen door, he faced the barrel of a Smith & Wesson. The hand that held it belonged to his boss. Then, he realized. The man had been played. He was used to eliminate the cousins, but the true reason for his coming was his own death. His boss pulled the trigger. BANG!

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

The Ringing

It is always there, hiding in the background.
It waits patiently, as time matters not to it.
All that it cares about is your discomfort, your pain.
As the sun begins its slow decent, it prepares itself.
As you become drowsy, fatigued by the day's events, it begins to salivate. How it will enjoy tormenting you.
The lights flicker off, and you lay yourself down into your bed. Your eyes close, and then it strikes.
A terrible, high pitched ringing fills your ears. It brings no pain direct pain, but the longer it continues, the more sleep deprived and angry you become.
The ringing.
The terrible ringing.
Will it ever end?

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Peonies and Bourdeaux

I stand at Taylor's doorstep, peonies in hand. The other hovering at the door, curled into a fist.
“I can't do this... I can't do this...”
I lean up on the door, and finally knock.
“Just a minute,” she calls out.
The door opened and I am stunned. Taylor wears a dazzling dark ruby dress that showcases her voluptuous curves very nicely. My face reddens slightly.
“Come on in,” She says, smiling her special smile. The big, toothy smile she only gave to me. 
I follow her in, and she leads me into the dinning room. At the table are two white-wax candles, flames flickering in the din. We sit down, and she offers a glass of Bordeaux. 
“Why thank you,”
“My pleasure,” She stood. “Just a moment, I need to freshen up.”
She walks out of the room, and I sit there anxiously. This was the first time it has been just the two of us in such an intimate setting. Suddenly, from the direction of the bathroom I hear the sound of some great upheaval, of a belching. Cautiously, I get up and go to the bathroom door. I knock.
“Taylor? Taylor, are you okay?”
No Response. 
I open the door, pushing it forward. On the floor was Taylor, her mouth frothing, vomit covering her once sparkling dress.
“Oh... Oh my God... Taylor.... TAYLOR! Oh my God...”
I run into the living room and grab the phone. 
“911 Operator, where is the location of your emergency?” 

Monday, March 9, 2015

The Dryad

John closed his eyes, and drifted into slumber. The tendrils of fatigue pulling him into the darkness of the night. As he slips away, his mind begins to wander. He begins to dream.
* * *
John opened his eyes to find himself in a magnificent garden. Verdant blades of grass caress his bare feet. Large, expansive myrtles provided shade from the sun. Patches of blue veronica and perennial sage are nestled at the edge of the lawn. He can hear the chirping of blue jays above. It is so serene. He began to perambulate through the garden. Time did not matter here. All that mattered was that he enjoyed himself.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her, and was she gorgeous. She was so enticing, though not due to the fact that she wore next to nothing. Her skin was a bright green, that of a young flower stalk. Her hair, curly green locks, the color of evergreen pines, cascaded down her back, and nearly to the ground. She was clothed only with brown oak fastenings that secured a loincloth, and that covered her breasts.
She turned to him, and smiled. She laughed, beckoning to him, and began to scurry away.
“Wait!” John called after her, jogging to catch up.
He found her waiting for him in the boughs of a large cedar. She wagged her finger, inviting him closer. As he reached her, she brought her hand down his arm. John shivered with pleasure.
* * *
John bolted straight up as his alarm clock blared it's terrible tune.

“Come on... Really?” He groaned. “It was just getting good!

Sunday, March 8, 2015

Darkness Into Darkness

I wandered aimlessly, but no longer. Darkness no longer clouds my mind. A bright light shines through the onyxian murk. Through it, I can see myself. I'm whole again. I wear a robe of scarlet, adorned with rubies, red. Atop my brow lies spectacles, inlaid with aurum and argent. On my head, a thin band of bronze. The familiar smell of home wafts down the passage, one of parchment and freshly cut grass. It provides a slight comfort in the darkness. In the distance, I can see a light.
I walk towards the light, towards myself. With every step, brings pain. My mother is to the left. She is crying, reaching forth with hands of shifting blackness.
“Henry... I love you Henry... Henry...!”
I reach out, and she dissipates into darkness. Tears begin to flow down my face. I can no longer contain them. I take a step, and then another. My brother appears, calling for help, always in front of me. I grit my teeth, and continue on, but that only makes it worse. An inquisitor appears before his brother, instruments of extraction in hand. He strikes my brother, and uses his pokers to sear the flesh of his chest.
I lunge for the inquisitor, and my brother vanishes. I am alone again.
Reluctantly, I lift my foot up, and push on. My wife appears now, her lovely brown hair cascading down her back, her beautiful green eyes full of tears. Then, a man appears from behind her, and grabs at her. I can hear her scream as he begins to beat her, ripping her dress, and pulling down his pants.
“You're not real... YOU'RE NOT REAL!”
The man looks at me, and smiles. Then, he shoves my wife to the ground, and they both disappear. I sink to my knees, unable to continue. How selfish I am being though. They are all dead, and here I am, unable to walk the rest of the way to freedom. I push myself up, and force myself to continue. At last, I reach the light. It is magnificent, a great beacon in the darkness. I reaches forth to the radiant light. Then, bliss. A euphoria unlike any experienced by man. It was rhapsody
I awake to find myself in a dark cell. My body is bare, save for a tattered linen loincloth. Large iron chains bind my hands together. A ball attached to my ankle. Now, I cry in earnest. What has happened to me? How could the world be so cruel?
I force myself up onto my feet, the chains digging into my skin. I raise the chains binding my arms, and wrap them around my neck. Crossing my arms behind my head, I pull with all my might. It hurts, a pain unlike any I have every experienced. Then, my vision begins to blur. The light begins to fade. Blackness surrounds the edges of the room. My strength fades, and I sink to my knees, but I cannot stop now. With the last of my strength, I pull my arms back, and liberate myself.

Saturday, March 7, 2015


They go ever down, down, down,
Into the darkest of the depths.
Monuments of nature's beauty,
They are pinnacles of creation,
Icebergs floating on frozen seas.

Below, life swarms to and fro,
While above, the surface remains still.
Expanding out beyond the horizon,
A placid plain of water.

The Nile advances across the savannah,
Meandering, undisturbed,
Save for the scaled beasts that burrow on the banks

Formed by the sweat of the snow,
A small brook glides down the precipice.
Alpine evergreens stand tall,
Stretching deep into the mountain.

Infested with worms and parasites unseen,
Brown, murky rain water fills
Shallow holes dug by weathered hands.

Friday, March 6, 2015

She Who Sits in the Corner

This poem is dedicated to and inspired by Ms. Jan Priddy.

She Who Sits in the Corner

She sits at her desk in the corner.
The desk, covered with a hodgepodge of papers.
Essays and exams lay in semi-random piles,
Covered with the green ink of her pen.

She stands at the front of the room.
This is her domain, the kingdom from which she rules.
It serves as her pedestal, as her pulpit,
From which she preaches the beauty of language.

She sits in the chair across from you.
Stress and anxiety are bearing down.
But there she is, sitting across from you, smiling.
As she talks to you, you know everything will be alright.

Thursday, March 5, 2015


Woman in white
Sanguine droplets soaking
Spilling forth from a sickle slit

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

The Man and the Wall

He stood apart from the group, cell phone pressed against his head.
Everyone is smiling and laughing, except him.
His face was scrunched. His teeth grit. Anger flashed in his eyes.
He hung up his phone, shoving it in his pocket as he stormed outside.
In a fit of rage, he turned and slammed his fist into the wall.
Almost instantly he realized the mistake that he made.


We all get in line.
I am always the last picked.
My friend is captain
So today that will all change.

But I'm betrayed, again last.

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Sixteen Friends and a Fire

Sixteen young people circled around a piping-hot fire on the beach.
The ocean waves crash in a constant monotone nearby.
Everyone was full of joy, merry.
Speakers blasted classic rock and heads bobbed with the cords of Young, and voices echoed the lyrics of Johnson.
Their eyes glinted in the light of the orange flames.
Franks and marshmallows roast on skewers fashioned from old coat hangers.
As the fire begins to die down, so does the group. People begin to strip away, hurrying to make curfew.
The conversation begins to drift to more somber topics, to Ginsburg and friendship and morality.
Then I shared my thoughts with the group, and we all had a good laugh.
We thought about how this poem will end. With adventure? Will it be happy, or will we be sad to leave each other?

Monday, March 2, 2015

I Grew Up

I grew up a poor white boy.
I grew up in a constant state of fear.
I grew up in the shadow of terrorism, the world trade center bombing, 911.
I grew up in a state of war, brought on by a fabricated justification.
I grew up with a conservative government full of rich white men.
I grew up in a country where votes were bought, where the common man had the mere illusion of power.
I grew up in a society run by by the rich, by the CFOs and the CEOs, and the bankers on Wall Street.
I grew up in a society where my choice of representatives was between corporate puppets, or not voting at all.
I grew up in a society where a vote was for degrees of moderation, where progressive and liberal were evil words, even through they bring good things.
I grew up in a nation where my religion was my choice, and the government didn't take a stance against any one, but it supported the idea of the Christian God. A country where I am called unpatriotic for not pledging myself to an idol I don't believe in. I grew up being diminished and marginalized for my leftist beliefs in a bastion of conservatism.
I grew up watching everything I believed in being butchered by the hacks on Capitol Hill.
I grew up with Reaganomics.
I grew up with a nation of sheep, being led to the slaughter house by shiny toys and good looking white men.
I grew up in a society where they questioned, and refused to use proven life-saving medication people in Africa would, and literally do, die for.
I grew up in a world that was getting warmer and warmer, with ice caps melting, and sea levels rising. Yet, it was denied time and time and time again by the fossil fuel companies. By Big Oil and Shale and Natural Gas. By Exxon-Mobile and Shell and Chevron and British Petroleum. Because I grew up in a country thirsty, no addicted, to oil, politicians and scientists alike fell in line.
I grew up during a mass extinction, where polar bears and panda bears, where Smokey and Winnie where homeless, evicted by the immanent domain of the human race.
I grew up angry.
I grew up sad.
I grew up ashamed.
I also grew up curious.
I grew up hungry for knowledge, and in that, I was satisfied.
I grew up during a time of innovation, during a time of digitization.
I grew up with the personal computer and video games.
I grew up in a time where our knowledge of medicine was expanding more than it ever had in history. Where having HIV or AIDS was no longer a death  sentence. Where cancer could be treated. A world where smallpox was gone, and where the iron lung was a distant memory.
I grew up in a period of exploration, where we could land on comets, and where we could drive our curiosity across the red planet.
I grew up in the most peaceful part of human history, during days when the Big Apple didn't have any person killing another.
I grew up in the new millennium, though I was born in the previous one.
I grew up in the land of the free, and the home of the brave, and despite all of their problems, I grew up loving my family, and my community, and my country.
That is how I grew up.

Sunday, March 1, 2015

The Bane of Man

From deep within the darkness it resides,
Warm sanguine waves of blood caress the shore,
Ever waxing and waning are the tides.

Young boys, barely men lay out on their sides,
Their armor and chests broken by claymore,
From deep within the darkness it resides.

Scarlet blood boils out from beneath their hides,
A battle depicted in olden lore,
Ever waxing and waning are the tides.

The primal need to kill, in shadows hides.
It hides within a man whilst he dost sleep,
From deep within the darkness it resides.

The hearts of all men, this lust occupies,
Instinct only a strong mind can endure.
Ever waxing and waning are the tides.

Despite the cruelty this action defines,
It is a rare occurrence, that is sure.
From deep within the darkness it resides,
Ever waxing and waning are the tides.


A blank canvas,
Full for potential thoughts,
The instrument of creation.

A pen.
From it comes thoughts,
Ideas that flow freely,
Escaping from the writer's mind.
Born new.

Allowing sight,
Ideas coming to fruition.

Paper in hand,
Pen dancing across it.
The start of a grandiose world,
Just think.

This world,
In light, people,
In darkness, the monsters,
Everywhere, beautiful life,

From it comes thoughts,
The start of a grandiose world,


Research Paper

The midnight oil burns.
Slowly, the lights start to dim.
Nothing left but it.
The pain that monster brings.
Unseen in its red folder.


Everyday we come
With calculators and books.
We sit down and cry.
Brought to our knees by the math.
Melting our brains with theorems.

The Tree

In my backyard was
An ancient, tall evergreen.
Everyday I'd play
In and under its branches.
Until the day it was cut.

The Girl With The Amber Hair

She walked right by me.
The girl with the amber hair.
The smell of her world-
That of parchment and old books.
But she doesn't notice me.

The Slamming Door

The front door slammed shut.
The force behind the  slamming
It breaks the hinges.
She sits silently weeping.
Never to see him again.

Lost Without Her

In the deep darkness
Alone I stand in silence.
Sorrow overwhelms
My fragile heart beats too fast.
Broken by the loss of her.

I Live in an Empire

I live in an empire, an empire of red, white, and blue.
I live in an empire that stretches from sea to shining sea.
I live in an empire that has conquered its former overlord.
I live in an empire that is in the Rhineland and Andalusia. In Lombardia and Vienna.
I live in an empire that is in the Danish Sound and the Scottish Highlands. In the Barbary Coast and the Levant.
I live in an empire that is in the Heavenly Kingdom and the Heart of Darkness.
I live in a global empire, one forged out of military and economic might.
I live in an empire that spends more money on its military than every other aspect of its government combined. An empire that can control unmanned planes from a computer across the world, with operators acting as judge, jury, and executioner.
I live in an empire that can violate the territory of nearly any nation in the world. An empire that can invade and occupy two different nation states for over a decade, being able to ignore all outcry from other states, as it has the power to blow the world into smithereens a hundred times over with it's massive nuclear arsenal.
I live in an empire that has dominance over the market. An empire that controls the global GDP with corporations and LLCs.
I live in an empire that exploits everything it can. An empire that creates earthquakes by drilling for fuel. An empire that razes rainforests.
I live in an empire that pollutes water with sewage and industrial poisons, that spews pollutants into the air that you and I breathe. An empire that is destroying the world that we live in.
I live in an empire of red, white, and blue. An empire full of corruption and evil.
I live in the American Empire.