The Mindful Eye


I saw the golden light

creep along the leaves

and I cried because it was so much bigger than beautiful

so much more than the prison of a word


And I cried for those who can not see it

for those who will never know

the way the light dances in different directions

a symphony that will never be seen again


how sad for them to have missed this

how wonderful for me to have seen

The words we say without knowing


You said it and it stayed

and there it did remain

playing out for always

every day

like a movie marathon

And all I wanted was to read you, a poem of forgiveness

Perhaps this is the poem you were always meant to hear

I forgive you

you did not know

how the weeds would grow

and suffocate the flowers

that wanted to bloom

And when they piled on the dirt

and that putrid smell rose

it filled my nostrils and escaped my eyes

till all i could see was the disgust outside

But again

It’s ok

I think it was meant to be this way

I’ve made friends with the weeds

and forgotten about the flowers

and look!

there are trees

that line blue rivers

which house secrets inside

Swim with me now

and I know I will not drown

You have kept me afloat

of this I have no doubt

and so once more-

I forgive you because,

despite it all

it is you,

who I adore



Never again will I be beaten, by the drums of my own melancholy.

I will whistle while I walk,

For the day has too much wonderful mystery, hidden within its circular walls.

And if the day should bite and disappoint me,

tomorrow will always have a different door.

Going 40



Do not break these tectonic plates beneath my feet,

they were meant for me.

I think that I was born this way,

to always sway

and never truly stand.

Like a soldier


on command.


I see the 60 sign and yet I go 40

I drag behind the bus and follow it,

wherever it may go.

Hunger Jacks

I said it

Not Hungry Jacks

because I see you now on the corner

and the sting of swelling spit in my open mouth says “feed me”


I turn the corner going 40

The grocery line of cars angrily honk all the way to the horizon

I don’t know what they expected from a Tuesday afternoon

I think they’d be happy with my always 40


Why do we honk at standing still?

Why do we curse the calm before the storm?

What makes the reckoning so appealing?

Does it really take a rubble to bring the Dawn?


I think I’ll stay at 40

and eat a bloody burger while I’m at it

and I will smile, a big juicy smile

and watch as they go 100 in a 60 zone.


The Frame



Olive green majestic,

flower on an ancient frame.

Carved from red wood,

a dying forest,

swallowed by lava that once was leaves.

Leave me here to die a red death

and I will thank you three times.

Once for the olive green photo frame that houses a black and white memory-

Once for the paint you harvested and drained from my black and white veins-

And lastly I will thank you,

for throwing the picture away.

Untitled 2017


Release me from this day and time

A face of no words

A voice not yet heard


I am waiting for the world to take me

But until it does it will not break me


See these lines upon my face

These lines you made when you folded me in two

and three

and four

and five more times

never thinking you will run out of paper


But there are only so many trees in the forest

The Hollow Place

#poetry, Uncategorized

Her feet walk the wild waves of the sea

Waves biting back at the heels of her hollow feet


changed by the creatures who lurk below

watching her with curiosity

will she make it?

They just don’t know.


And so

she walks

they wait

they watch

their eyes follow every speck of splashing water

darting in every different direction

always somewhere new.


She almost wished for a welcoming-

a homecoming

as though she belonged beneath it all along

and was never truly meant for the surface.


A glint of orange haze on the horizon

the glint of hope

a spark of shore

to reassure

to make the shipwreck mean something

to tell the story of dead Sailors

and Pirates who stole without truly wanting

just to steal

and steal they did

digging and digging

a hole so hollow

so void of that which makes the flowers grow.


Thin paper prodding along the edge between

air and ocean

and the space where fate decides

up or down

do I breathe or do I drown?


I am not a god

I should not be able to walk these wild waves

and yet I continue

and the creatures continue to watch



A deep wanting,


deep inside.


Storm clouds gather and swallow the orange horizon

Night steals the lighthouse away

the storm in my eye gathers

the swell of thunder in the distance is borrowed by a stare.

The Thinker


Waiting for the thinker to

rear it’s ugly head

like a sneaky little monster

with poison in it’s eyes



ever evaluating…


This and that and all the smaller moments that make me, me

but not the girl

the fake one-the false

A painted face in a hall of painted faces

and scissors

and gauze


Disfigured faerie’s with broken wings

chopping at my face

my arms

legs and everything in–between

the cracks within the cracks

breaking against my back

until I’m completely bent


Perception now upside-down

Right-side up for the thinker


I can see you now

Spotlight shining on that poison laced pupil


You can keep on looking

but know that I will look back