short of breath
not for lack of air
but because it catches
in my mouth. in my nose. in my throat.
with thoughts of why and how and why now
because everything used to be simple
except that’s misremembering
nothing has even been either of those
and the breath I can catch flows like water
too much too soon and it’s just as bad as none
and the lights flicker
and my heart throbs or stops
I can’t be sure which
and I can’t make reason
as I close me eyes
imagining I have a place for calm


they buzz and swirl while I sleep
a funnel cloud
scratching, nagging
tickling memories
inciting panic
ensuring unrest
until their buzzing leads to tossing
and I open my eyes in the dark.


reasons don’t matter
I have them
plentiful. meaningful. beautiful. trivial.
but they don’t matter.
reasons have no soul
they don’t wake from a dream wanting…
breathe life into an inconsequential day…
make memories…
reasons won’t change your heart or mind…
and they won’t soothe mine.


and we’re back to the poetry…

that feel like memories
when something cold stops you
catching a breath in your throat
holding it
until you can decide what it is
torment or hope
fear or relief
something familiar
but unexpected
you can’t know until it passes


the long lost poems…

So they aren’t really lost, nor were they written too long ago in the grand scheme of things, but I would say 16 years is long enough to pull them out of their paper tombs.  I’m in the process of typing up and storing away many of my old pieces and as I do so I’ll probably post a few here.  Like this one.  Now.


In the fields of my discretion
I feel lost
in so many heads
into so many wanting eyes.
And in yours
I no longer see
the lust
and life
that fill my eyes.

If you would only say goodnight
and set me to my own devices
I could go on living.
and in the dark
but it would be mine.
I could hold something against me
to protect myself
from the eyes that no longer see.

the gray in between…

I never know if it’s just me.  Can’t quite work out if it’s just my mind that plays this way.  But I pick out words.  Phrases.  Thoughts.  And I retain them for years.  Sometimes they’re my own words, sometimes they’re the words of others. You’d think this would come in handy in certain situations.  Like if I were on Jeopardy, I had someone constantly quoting movie lines at me or if ‘Name That Tune’ made a big comeback.  But sadly it doesn’t really work that way.  The phrases, the words… they play over and over in my mind as do tunes and the cadence with which things are said, but I can’t always recall the source.

Unless they’re mine.

Then I know who said them, but still can seldom recall the piece they came from.  Today has seen one piece from a poem repeating in my head.

the way I’ve written
about the gray in between

I wish I could remember the rest of it.  The context.  I wish I could recall the rest of my poem.  I wish I had a better storage system for my decades of poetry than It’s in one of those folders or that black note book.  But that’s where they live.  On those stray papers and in my mind.  In ink and paper when all my other thoughts get recorded and bits and bytes.

how very un-catlike…

curled up
where in the summer
there would be sun
but not from winter’s nip
as limbs stray
reaching for long gone warmth
not caring that they’d be warmer
tucked in
curled up
from the hazy light that will never be a sunbeam

poetry time again…

words softly spoken
but audible
for no one to hear
whispered as they appear on screen
with more feeling than the clack of keys can muster
beneath shaking fingers
a shaking head
and stillborn breaths.


entire worlds exist behind each set of eyes
as they stare intently
or close to contemplate
finding tales that will never see the light of day
as lives play out inside minds
daydream and play pretend
imaginary friends
that lead the way
in tickling spring rain
in warm summer grass
in crisp fall leaves
in harsh winter gusts
in life
in love


and if we’re lucky we keep those worlds
even as the one around us is disenchanted

it’s a poem… just deal with it

For the most part my resurgence in posting as of late is just me diving back into myself.  Allowing me a chance to be me for a while and to work with something I love.  Words.

My love affair with words started when I was young.  Very young.  When my older brother started reading I was outraged that I wasn’t reading too… so I learned.  Then I started stringing words together.  Sentences were fine.  A paragraph was well and good but when I was a child I enjoyed building a collection of words to make a point or to make a cadence I was pleased with.

A few years later and there I am with a composition book tucked into my bag at all times writing poem after poem.  From the age of ten to 22 I wrote poetry non stop.

Now wait a minute, no.  I never said it was good poetry.  I just said I wrote it.  I was compelled to write it.  I stopped writing poetry about 11 years ago.  I’ve had a few upticks where I would write for a week and then stop, but it is something I miss about me.  So I’m diving back in.

Today I’m just taking a peek at some things I’ve written in the last couple of years.  Luckily it’s a small bunch to sort through.  But to begin my re-acquaintance with the form of writing I so dearly love?  A poem I wrote last summer.

From the rooftops
I would see more than I can imagine
I would know more than I would wish
I could feel the wind in my face
In my hair
The air stealing my breath as it rushes
Too fast to inhale
Suffocating me as it whips past

From the rooftops
Amazing things are possible
But the distance I would fall, kills.