writing

TBB - Sketchbook Feature

Sketchbook #1: Two Different Skies (prose)

It was the kind of night you could look up and see two different skies.

The first sky – the real sky – the far away sky – was at the top. It was the deep velvet violet everyone thinks about when they think about night skies between a fading warm spring and an impending hot summer. No diamond stars, just soft and deep rumination.

The other sky – the clouds, really – the closer sky – laid at the bottom. Just as soft but more overbearing, looming than the first sky. Spectral gray palates singed with halogen orange from suburban streetlights.

The wind was warm, too; hearty branches on lurching trees leaned back and forth anxiously. Leaves’ pale undersides carry the second sky – turning over, they carry the dark of the first sky, and they can’t decide for themselves, and the wind has better things to do.

To feel angry like heat lightning flicker with no rain for relief. To be too inadequate to rest and too apathetic to try.

To know God’s presence and not believe. To know his love and not obey.

To know His love and not obey.

To smolder.

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.