of feathers











to fly

a strip

of wood

no matter

how well molded

and shaped

can not

fly straight

and true



to help






a president


an organization







a friend is a friend



communication’s essence

but my yellow daffodil

is not always the same one

you see

no matter

what I said

add in emotions

like love or fear

and suddenly my daffodil

is no longer a daffodil

but a tulip

or carnation

to please your heart

and calm your nerves

and the more I explain

the yellow petals

and orange stamen

and straight hollow green stem

you can only see

a flower

I can’t put love

in your brain

any more than you can save

my doomed relationships

or give me peace

in the midst of grief

but I can help you find


and you can help me find


just by asking questions


and giving answers

without fear

that I won’t understand

who you are

and want

what’s best for you

despite what I know

is best for me

and that’s all

I ask

in return


Splinters in the Brain

Tears and dead flower petals

fall to the floor

in equal measure these days.

I just want “this” to end,

to go away,

to stop being so … all consuming.

I don’t care that I ever cared

for you and

I fail to understand how

you still think I do

enough to play games

and create multiple twitter accounts

with weird names

posting offbeat “poetry”

lamenting love gone wrong

and tell me, yet again,

how it’s over and done.

Your days of writing intensively

playing online

promoting yourself

and the world you created

is but a blur to me.

For my world is filled

with ever repeating conversations

about things that happened

in a totally different way

and finding things lost

and taking care of the person

who should be taking care of me

and friends who wait patiently

for me to return

to whoever I was before

grief smothered my world.

But I will never be that person again

and I fear … yes I fear …

I will lose even them

in the darkness.

I can not see


or the skeleton hand

resting in mine

Ridges outline my pain

in the sand

on the beach

where my dad will walk

for all eternity

picking up shells

chasing tiny fish

watching the sunrise

orange and fiery setting the world


and I wish, I wish

I could go with him

because without him

my world is splintered

into fragments piercing

my skull with so many holes

I feel like a sieve.

I will never be whole again

or able to contain

anything akin to love

or memories

or … life …




I want it to end

to bend

to wrap around my wounded heart

and then begin

to show me

how to take a breath

in the midst of death

I want it to end


I’d Rather

I always said

I’d rather have you here

than dead

where I can’t tell you

a new joke

or have you taste

a new soup

or ask your opinion

about life


none of that matters now

because you’re gone

and as hard as I try

to see your face

to ask you a question

to hear your voice

the sound of the waterfall

and birds

in the oasis you created

are the only things I hear.

I’d rather have you

than any bird

or flower

or fish

or peaceful haven

in your backyard.

I’d rather


were still here

with me.


My mom, in her cleaning out the closet mode, walked out to the dining room where I was sitting today and handed me a Ziploc bag with old watches in it. After a conversation previously with my writing cohorts about needing a Steampunk costume, I eagerly snatched them up to use. My mom wanted to know if they worked, so I turned and twisted each of them making sure none of them did. One of them the second hand popped off as I turned the winder, so I was certain it wasn’t going to work again.

But time is what I need. Time to write. Time to think. Time to be alone. Time when no one is making noise. Time when no one interrupts me every two minutes. Time. Time. Time. Time.

So, I wished that all those watches could just miraculously saturate my life with the time I need to just get things done.

Instead they seem to be sucking time away.

Nothing has been the same since my dad died. People keep saying that it will take time to figure out what the new normal is … but time is the one thing that we don’t seem to have. Some days I find myself just wishing I had a few moments to sit back and think and dream about my dad, to remember all of him, to let him soak into my soul instead of fading away. Instead life moves on and keeps dragging me with it, kicking and screaming in silence and heartbreak and utter frustration.

I peruse my friends writing achievements and find myself jealous of their time. Their stories advance while mine lingers stagnant, the life slowly draining away. Instead of plying my characters with love affairs and mysteries to solve or running them up a tree and setting it on fire and watching them figure out how to get out of their predicament, my characters are standing against the tree tapping their watches and yawning.

While I wait for time to pass, and the world to return to normal, I feel like I’m disappearing in the folds.

Life After

My soul ripped

with that phone call,

ripped my life

between the seams,

where a needle and thread

won’t hold the frayed bits,

so I bleed

3.2% alcohol

to keep the wounds

from festering

in my life after.