free verse

Water Lillies by Claude Monet

Painting (a poem)

Painting…
up and down
up…and down…
up…and down…
up…and down…

Painting…
long and even strokes
long…and even…
long…and even…
long…she’s pretty

Painting…
long and even strokes, covering the canvas…
covering…the canvas…
covering…the canvas…
covering…she’s beautiful

Painting…
long and even strokes covering the canvas
adding vibrant color to a lifeless frame
mixing the colors for the perfect match
stirring the substance of soul…
the substance…of soul…
the substance…of soul…
the substance…she’s a good dancer, too
we even like the same music…common ground

Painting…
long and even strokes in the same direction,
not sloppy with indifference,
but slow enough to savor and fast enough to deliver.
fast enough…to deliver…
fast enough…to deliver…
fast enough…she just said that she was single.

single…I wonder…no…should I?
I might…I’m single, too…
should I be subtle…and romantic…and coy…
should I be the jerk who always gets the girl…
should I do it now…
no…others would gossip…
but that doesn’t matter…not really…
that’s them, not me…
not now…but I will…

Painting…
animating the blank, emotionless panels
and breathing life through the brush
giving them love
Giving them…love…
Giving them…love…
Giving them…she just said she wanted
to stay single for a while.

Painting…
up and down…
up…and down…
up…and down…
up…and down…

Painting…
long and even strokes.
long…and even…
Long…that’s fine with me…
I’d rather her be happy without me…
than her be unhappy with me…
as long as I get to spend time with her…
and even…

Painting…
stirring the substance…
I don’t mind waiting…
of soul…
and down…

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This photo was taken by Michael Hull and is available through Unsplash.com.

Driving in the Moonlight (a poem)

my generation drives in the moonlight
of faith filtered by fallacious fear
of hope held down by hollowed histrionics
of love lost in the limbo of legality

illumination without demonstration
memorization without externalization
catechism without asceticism
reading a heap without feeding the sheep
knowing a need without sowing the seed
faith without works – and it hurts

we cry because nothing grows in the moonlight
we have just enough sight to see the path
and just enough height to hit the gas
but we can’t commit to letting God drive

we have to check our headlights and our tail lights
our engine light between every stop light
to provide new cars for our future security
never minding how hot the radiator runs
never minding the thought that rarely ever comes
works without faith – and it isn’t safe

my generation drives in the moonlight
we think we have to go somewhere nice
and we think we have to do something good
but we don’t want to wait for the Son.

This is a photograph of a wheat field taken by Cole Patrick.

Let Them Grow Together (a poem)

A man said that weeds were showing on the plain
ingrained with the seeds and growing with the grain.
The Creator, up on high, is throwing down the rain,
and we, later, low with sigh, are hoeing in a chain
these weeds of malfunction. We’re sowing with a strain
of deeds of destruction while mowing with the pain.
“Don’t uproot them now, as you’re knowing in your brain,
but let them grow together – as if flowing – as if twain –
and when the harvest comes, burn the chaff, save the grain.”


A poetic reiteration of the Jesus’s Parable of the Weeds as found in Matthew 13:24-30.

This is an image of the moon shining brightly behind a tree.

Violet Cream

violet cream pastel moon
a light velvety lavender
hints of golden orange
blew in soft clouds
street lights below
defined the road

the road surrounded
was still black
still motionless still
negating any light it touched
hiding any love it felt
if it felt any love at all

hard to tell whether or not
if she wanted the snow
if she needed some time to herself
or whatever roads think
what is it about snow
that reminds us how heartbroken we are

she is the road
everything around her
blends in the background
but she is still black
still motionless still
there.

This is an image of a calendar.

I Hate The Calendar

I hate the calendar.
It hangs in the assumption
that something will happen.
not that it has to happen,
nor that it needs to happen,
          but it will happen anyway,
          no matter what I say.

I hate the calendar,
not because I fear commitment,
but I despise the thought of obliging myself
to something that doesn’t pertain
to my present state –
          tomorrow can worry about itself;
          I have enough to worry about today.

I hate the calendar.
Every day is another tilted red cross
that I bear. It’s a vibrant
intersection of lifelines
and deadlines –
          everything I can do in this life
          and how long I have to do it.

I most hate the calendar
because it answers
the question of my mortality.
It screams from every corner
YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED!
          I know I’ll die;
          I don’t need a calendar to remind me.


Here’s a poem I wrote back in 2009; it has since been revised and exists now as I believe it should.

fireworks, fourth of july, 4th of july, independence day

Independence Day Processional (2016)

Firework stands are lined up on the road
for an Independence Day processional
selling in circus tents spanned for miles.
The sun is high in the blue,
and the last sparkler has just gone by,
getting ready for the celebration.

Festival fans are lined up on the ground
for an Independence Day processional
sitting in lawn chairs spanned for miles.
The sun is tilted in the orange,
and the last anthem has just gone by
getting ready for the grand display.

Shrapnel shrouds are lined up in a row
for an Independence Day processional
shining in lighted candles spanned for miles.
The sun is evening in the red,
and the last hero hearse has just gone by
getting ready for peace hereafter.

Afterburn clouds are lined up in the sky
for an Independence Day processional
sailing in street lights spanned for miles.
The sun is out in the black,
and the last ave maria has just gone by
getting ready for peace hereafter.