Word Storm: Poetry (Audio)

Published Poetry

Dandelion Seeds

(featured in Dandelion Symphony, 2020)

Books are strewn from floor to floor,
collected in corners and atop coffee tables
scattered from the shelves and minds
from across the world,
like seeds scattered in the wind.

Light reads blow away—dancing as they go—
to find another home, but the occasional book
that makes one stop, and think,
and breathe in the scent of the earth,
the damp air foretelling rain,
that pages of this life—
these books take root
in the otherwise hardened patio of the mind.

Puddle

(originally published in Particle Magazine, Autumn 2015,
University of Nottingham)

Raging. Fear. Gray.

Some call it dreary or drab

despite the grab, the pull of the roots,

but it is your story,

your May Day,

your birth.

Pit-pat. Thrush. Gush.

Youth finds you growing,

stretching your arms and fingertips

to reach a new sidewalk,

a new grass line,

a new curb.

Billow. Wisp. Sigh.

Retreat your Mother Sky,

and hopes rise.

Face reflecting people walk,

buses splash,

canines trot.

Still. Sun. Heat.

Father Time cups your soul

in his hands

You’re shrinking,

he’s drinking.

The sidewalk is dry.

You are but a memory

that reflected

the way we held hands.

Once.

Small Talk

(originally published in Particle Magazine, Spring 2016,
University of Nottingham)

Nobody wants to bare their heart—a whitewashed wall,

on which hang the faded memories of yesterday and the grand sketches of tomorrow

—not when it shows the dirty fingerprints of children,

the crumbling drywall from the fight, or the blood droplets from last Tuesday.

Even the loved are not safe from the cobwebs of time or the settling of dust on a lonely soul.

Society saunters in, sporting a suit and carrying a pail of touchup paint.

When she asks, “How are you?”, I follow protocol, dipping my brush

in the pail of cheery, yellow lies, dabble it over the latest spot of mold

and smile, saying, “I’m doing well. How are you?”

Heartbeat

(originally published on Spillwords)

she’s the reminder that I need fresh air—

kiss of sharp needles, stabbing my feet as

they plunge in this icy green lakeside shore from

liquefied glaciers where old trunks sank and

stick up like a cross-stitch quilt; when you ask

me to listen, rest my head atop your

chest, please don’t ask me to relax, for still I

feel the avalanche, lifeblood of this sphere with its

veins of ash and fire pulsing to drumbeats

in the deep; she first stole my breath like a

pickpocket, making me double-check my

back. I can’t grasp hold of fear when it is

keeping me alive. this earth is my home—

my heart core in that cavern you call my

chest—I’ll hold my breath, dreading the next earth-

quake, because it’s more than shivers running up

my backside, making my hair stand on end;

it’s a reminder that this, my wild heart,

is only one organ in our world of

orchestras, setting the march with drums now

bricks

brick-red, the russet hue
that clung to calloused hands
and corroded like crumbs,
coated fingers like chalk

brick-yellow, the sunburnt shade
that smelled of asphalt and wind
on a summer’s day—petrol
and the singe of a magnifying glass

brick-gray, the mind’s matter
that can’t quite recall
the thrill of the path i carved
when i scaled these walls

brick-white, the bleached blanket
that coated the face like foundation,
but didn’t quite belong where the dirt
stained its skirts brick-red

My Favorite Poem of 2021 (February)

Do Not Dissect This Poem

if you would, simply set aside the rhyme—
feel the rhythm, this ever-beating pulse.
Close your eyes and imagine the springtime
fresh with morning rain…

Can you hear it?
Listen closely.
closer
ba-dum
ba-dum
ba-dum

the ever-thrumming heart
of a runner as his feet pound this earth,
the ever-expanding-depressing
chest of the bull that croons,
the ever-silent pad
of her toes
on the floor

ba-Dum ba-Dum ba-DUM
Shout! it out
Stomp your rhythm
Clap your song

ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum
remember the days you laughed,
the mornings you cried
the places you came from,
look to where you will go and see

hear me ask
Don’t dissect this poem, if you would
simply let it squeal
let it sing
let it be