A Cold Day’s Warmth

They built fires built for warmth

but it is only there

that the legends,

the myths,

the tall tales are told.

Light flickers,

imagination rages brilliantly,

and the embers remain

come morning.

Restless hearts and minds

shaken from equally

restless sleep.

Warmth is gone

but the dream remains

throughout the day . . .


to be legends


myths among men,

taller than the tall tales


some cold night

around the warm fire.


oh, someday.

Occasional Prose · Poetry

Come What May

The door’s open, come what may.

* * * * *

The FOR SALE sign slowly burned.

* * * * *

The neighborhood watched behind closed curtains.

* * * * *

“The end is nigh,” it read.

* * * * *

The CLOSED sign was in neon.

* * * * *

The open door closed many out.






Six word stories? Writing prompts? A weirdly edited poem? You decide.


Dull Incandescence

I just want to be mad for a while

but I only came to disappointment–

disappointment in the things

I tried to be mad at,

disappointment in myself

for not having the guts

to make it known,

disappointment that

the disappointment would not

bloom into anger–

because there is a time and a place

for such things

and anger is needed sometimes,

some places,

to make things known

and demand changes


The Wide Web and the World

Perhaps if I write my thoughts out

on paper, in pen,

then the catacombs

of this empty mind

might continue to echo

the algorithms of a cluttered brain

and a physical world

rather than the ones

found in a world wide web

of 1’s and 0’s

Are your eyes sore yet? I just wanted to see if I could still write cursive after all these years.
No. No I cannot write cursive after all these years.

Call Me What You Want

Call me things and call me names

Call me out with all of your claims

Call me, tell me, “No more games . . .”

Call me, please, just call me

Call me with a simple text

Call me with something complex

Call me ’cause I’m quite perplexed

Call me, please, just call me







This poem is not a personal story though I found myself writing a long spiel about why this poem’s narrator is not a sympathetic character. I deleted that multi-paragraph spiel, wrote a long paragraph, and deleted that too. So I’ll just draw your attention to the second and third lines and beg each of you to be on the lookout for that kind of language in your lives. If it’s others speaking it, be cautious. They might be speaking legitimately without considering any implication in their wording. They might even be in the right. But that kind of wording is usually trying to be subtle in shifting blame to another (in the poem’s case, the blame is subtly placed on the recipient. If the recipient would call, the narrator could get the narrative back on track.) If you find yourself saying these words, take a step back and consider why.

That is not a hard and fast rule–it’s not even a rule at all. Not everyone speaks the same way. Just put the best construction on things and don’t fret about it. Cautiousness does not have to be paranoia. Trust does not have to be ignorant.

Language is a powerful tool that can be used for good or bad. Use it for good.



She’s ever elusive, out of reach

Yet she has permanent residency

Here in my mind, maybe my heart

But this isn’t the machinations

Of lust, or boyhood crushes

There’s something there,

Something I never felt before

Calm, warm, soft to touch

Like velvet on a winter night

Other women have come

Left their mark and never return

So I pray this time she stays

For it’s my soul, that now longs

For her reception.


The Next Big Thing

The next big thing

is just a band

a song

a man

ain’t no rhyme or reason


to strike up

arguments again

because it’s all

just a con

ain’t nothing

that won’t get gone

except for her

she’ll stick around

with world renown

be the next big thing

and that’s a hill

I’ll die on


Behind the Curtain

Tap the box and the image

might go from black and white

to black and white and blue,

this tale presented

in glorious technicolor!

Tune in now

to see the off-color

shades, static,

the blurry image

of a gray brick road

that leads to Kansas

from Oz,

see the one behind

the curtain, behind the screen,

behind the scenes

when the power turns off

and the screen

turns reflective



Blood is dripping consistently

Bruises tattooed persistently

All over my body, my soul

And everyday, losing control

Of my life, my hope, my mind

But I swear to God, l’m not kind

To adversity, to defeat, to the fall

I will not falter, I’ll break the wall

I’ll rise and take hits, fight back

I won’t slow, even when bones crack

I will get the prize, the hope and victory

And you will know of my success, no mystery