The Watch

Drip, drip goes the I.V.

the machine beeps

with each heart beat

as respiration’s are counted

beep, beep, beep

nurses enter pressing buttons

while he lays there unaware

as slowly his breath subsides

as the beeps dwindle

and respiration begins to fade

a nurses hand on his wrist

a tear from her eye as she watches

he slips into another place

no more will he suffer

the slings and arrows of hate

then the long sound

of the machine as it wails

matching her own grief

in the silence of her heart.


Social Media, Poetry and Plagiarism

A strange thing happened last week, a short, and I do mean short, poem was basically plagiarized. When I first found out I thought it was kind of funny, I mean here I am, not one of the greatest poets in the world, in fact I’ve only been dabbling in writing poems just the last couple of years. Heck, truth be told, I’m not all that great of a writer. All I do is try to put words down on paper and see where they lead me. I’ve tried creative nonfiction, fiction, essay, blogging as well as poetry, and although I sometimes get a nice comment or two, my writing is not going to change the world. So to have my short, little poem, that I posted on Twitter to be stolen by another Twitter user, well I have to wonder if they were either desperate or drunk. What is really funny is that my original post only garnered me a few likes and a couple of retweet’s, while this persons reposting of my work garnered them hundreds of likes and retweets. So, the good news is that someone liked my poem, it would have just been nice to get the credit but then again, what have I really lost? Just a few words sent out into the ether we call social media, a wilderness as deep and wild as any real wilderness that we might wander through. It will not stop me from writing, I will still post my little poems and musings and if someone out there is moved enough to want to use what I write as their own, then I hope at least they will thank me. By the way, here is that little poem I wrote, it’s not much, but it is mine, enjoy.


is the song

of my heart


in the silence.

Advent Calls

In the depths of the heart

a voice whispers

awaken, O Man, awaken

the first light is lit

the world awaits

the maidens have trimmed their wicks

and still you slumber

awaken to the worlds needs

awaken to the song of humanity

the cries of the innocent

that haunt our souls

the angel speaks softly

in a voice of thunder

Wake, O Man, Wake.

Selling Our Souls

Are we really that far gone?

In this time and place

the darkness of a human

overshadows the light

and covers us in shame.

Many despair this darkness

as they try to make sense

of the trite words being tossed

at the expense of another soul.

You shall love God and neighbor

unless that neighbor is different

and then you look to denigrate

while the crowds cheer raising their thumbs

feeling vindicated without knowing

they have sold their own souls

for the price of thirty pieces.

Where Does Poetry Come From?

Where does poetry come from?

Is it birthed in tragedy,

when a heart is broken

and fear darkens a life?

Is it created, when love is found

in that first kiss under the oak tree?

Does poetry only belong to the young

who see colors dance along the mind.

Or, does poetry come from a life full of mystery

where even the smallest grain of sand

is seen as an invitation into stillness.

I am old now seeking to find my poets heart

in the quiet moments of the day.

I listen for that young voice

crying out in my dreams and imagination

seeking words and images

long lost in the whirlwinds of the past.

The Good Poet

The poet,

a good poet,

sees the world,

I mean,

really sees the world.

They not only see a sunrise,

they see the colors that dance across the horizon.

The changing shapes of clouds

being blown about the blue sky.

When they write about love,

they touch upon deeply held feelings

giving voice to our deepest desires.

Passionate kisses are felt,

the warmth of another person held close,

losing oneself in the moment

wishing it to last forever.

In the way they use words

that worm their way into a person’s heart.

Poetry becomes the portal,

through which we step into

an unseen world,

uncovering mysteries lying

just outside of our limited sight.

Your Story

Your story has sunk into my skin

dived through epidural layers

soaking through the membranes

to become a part of the greater story

the one we have shared all these years

your story has rooted itself

with roots that entwine the deepest parts

of my very being

feeding off the well of love

your story does not exhaust or deplete

it gives as much as it takes

it feeds until it becomes one with mine

and we live together

our souls singing in sweet harmony