Tag Archives: poem

It’s been a month and now it’s snowing

So it is snowing outside. Here is what it looks like.

Here is a little haiku I though of this morning when I saw the snow:

the snow falls down, white and crisp

a simple canvas

perfect for art or dog piss.




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Damn.. that house is old

So I may not like the TV show This Old House, but I do really like old houses. Which is why I loved this poem my mom sent me earlier today:


by Rachel Field
I like old houses best, don’t you?
They never go cluttering up the view
With roofs too red and paint too new,
With doors too green and blinds too blue!
The old ones look as if they grew,
Their bricks may be dingy, their clapboards askew
From sitting so many seasons through,
But they’ve learned in a hundred years or two
Not to go cluttering up the view.
That’s a picture I took last November of the chipping paint on my house. I think the best part of old houses is the chipping paint. Perhaps because of the disproportionate amount of lead paint chips I ate as a child.

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12 Hours In

12 Hours In


we hit 287

the fat cows

stopped looking

like shadows

started looking

like statues

we blinked and hands

came into focus


like hams

wrenches gripping

pop caps

a sharp click

and soothing fizz

soda sucked

through phallic straws

we whispered


hurtled by

XXX signs

projecting magenta


the grapefruit moon

shoulders shouldered

rat eyes


we cracked

our chicken necks




from the bone

we all touched


my thigh rubbing

hers elbowing

his elbow

resting against

the front seat

the moon had

burst and


sticky juice

into the trees

we rolled

down the windows

in Maryland

Great poem by a great friend.

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Look at my Valentine’s Day book… and yes it’s a gif.

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the headache

This headache is killing me, which reminds me of a poem I wrote over the summer about another headache that was at that time killing me. 

my head is a building

it is boxy and large

and must be destroyed

every method has been attempted

it begins slowly

an ice pick tries to shatter through

unsuccessful. it jabs harder

the building is ready to give up, 

but the frame is too strong, too sturdy.

no success leads to harsher methods

the battering ram appears

it batters, but can not break

It pushes harder and harder

the building wants to dissolve, 

but the frame is too stubborn.

the building still stands

but the insides have been gutted;

no thoughts enter or exit.

the building is just a skeleton:

empty, unsettled.

the wrecking ball has been called in

it works from the inside out.

it sits in the empty building

and thrusts itself into the walls.

the frame shakes, yet never falls

the building is ready to crumble

but instead it stays motionless.

taking the punches.

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Friend’s poem


We stood at the edge of
The water and sent the
Smooth stones we had gathered earlier sailing
Across the surface.
Ripples glided out
And suddenly I was hypnotized.
It was as though I had fallen through that center ripple
Straight down to the bottom of the lake.
In the quiet darkness
I could only feel the fish moving past me.
In that moment I was Saul,
Struck blind by God.
And the feeling of those scaly bodies sliding against my skin
Was all I needed to know that
All would be forgiven
As long as I just asked for it.
An invisible hand lifted me through the water
And as I broke the surface
My wings unfurled and I
Soared into the sun.
Not a modern Icarus,
Doomed for eternity,
But a liberated soul.
By the time I regained my sight
And opened my eyes
You had become concerned,
Asking me if I was alright.
I started to explain
But stopped because to rob you
Of your own
Would have been the undoing of my new found freedom.

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What I Try to Touch

What I Try to Touch

Something beautiful my friend wrote.


I let a kitten sleep in the crook of my arm
and another wrapped around my neck
a genuine fur scarf.
She smelled like unwashed sheets
and something not unpleasantly animal.

When one loose hair tickles the inside of my elbow
or when dust sinks teeth in my nose,
just before I sleep because there is nothing else to do
I am reminded of this ghost of a good thing.

There was the Barfuss Park too,
in the Schwarzwald
which I still feel between my toes
mud making mountains 
the dents on the bottom of my feet
hot cinnamon air
melting thickly in the mouth

When my mother holds my hand
I am four
and in the grocery store
She hums the tune her mother hummed
and her mother hummed
I hear it now.
I am slipping her earrings out 
as I sit in her lap
my fingers whisper so softly
that she doesn’t feel.

This morning I felt age in my neck.
My pillow is too thick – I should replace it.
My dreams are drizzle
cold and constant.

When the water pushes me with gentle,
insistent hands
I reach for these things.

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A photo by hikepa on flickr accompanied with a poem I wrote.

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I think I need to have this man read me everything.

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