My Writing
My collection of poetry, prose, and short stories
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Wake up in the morning, Pour a cup of coffee, Sip it while you calculate The price of your eggs. Return to office mandate, An 8-to-5 in corporate, Got to grin and bear it, You’ve got bills to pay. Work hard, show some muscle. Pick up a side-hustle. No rest for the wicked. No use
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I’m sitting on my porch for the first time in months. The weather is unseasonably warm for February. Instead of snow, the gray clouds threaten rain. Perhaps I should be worried about this sign of climate change, but the moment, I am relieved by this short break from winter. After 2 weeks of continual bad
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History doesn’t repeat But it does rhyme. What’s happened before Will echo in time. If you don’t study history You may fail to take Important lessons away from the past’s mistakes. But I don’t need to know history To see, the familiar road where this path leads Into another great tragedy.
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No savior No messiah No king of mine. No praising No praying No bowing to thine. I cannot, I should not, I will not resign My humanity for his glory. Your god-king is not my lord.
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The sunrise looked like a landscape. My windowshield, its frame. The white mountains a masterpiece Under the sky’s orange flame. The sunrise looked like a landscape. Each moment a new image unfolds. With fields of frost sparkling silver In the dawn’s sunlight of gold. The sunrise looked like a landscape, Painted by a master’s hand.
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Between midnight and dawn, When the 13th hour strikes, Before the hourglass turns, When the calendar sits empty, Before the old year has gone, Time loses its meaning.
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When she first say him, he was sleeping under and ancient pine tree. Intrigued by his silver fur and powerful form she ached to move closer, to become a part of him. Enveloping him in an armless embrace, he felt nothing but the caresses of a strong breeze. His eyes opened, golden and alert
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You fell first. Open and trusting, You never doubted if you could love me. You patiently waited for my closed heart to alter, Now, you fell first But I’ve fallen harder.
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The morning of the death of democracy, Fresh snow glowed on the mountain tops. The sun rose bright in a pastel sky As birds and geese flew peacefully by, The beautiful day was a cruelly-felt lie– A mockery of our mourning. On the morning of the death of democracy, Heaven and Earth kept on turning.
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I miss the ocean Though I fear the unknown deep, And I dislike the sand in my shoes And the salt on my chapped skin. Still, I miss the ocean The sea-scented breeze in my hair, The sound of rolling waves in my ears, And the tide lapping at my ankles. I miss the ocean.
Bringing Mae Flowers 