Creative Writing Poetry


If I subordinate beauty to brute force and logic,

Then I’m nothing but a pride-filled fool.

Art embodies a being only birthed in servitude;

Such a spirit cannot be beaten into submission.

Creative Writing Poetry

Roadside pines

I am a bough bent low beneath the heavy snow,

One of a thousand trees on a long pilgrimage

Turned funeral procession, the weight of the cold

Breaking the backs of young and old.

Bruised, I bow in prayer as others

Trudge on through the night, cloaked in woolen white

Creaking in the freezing of the ground

And all that grows in it.

Slumber becomes so sound that the day knows no light or dark.

Everything seen on the trail of frozen tears

Is crowned in glory, frigid, and stark.

Creative Writing Poetry

My sadness rises like a mist

My sadness rises like a mist

And thoughts toll like a bell through fog,

Resounding from a place I fear

And I find no one there to hold.

Only holy, invisible things to weep for,

My shoulders rising and falling

With the air in my lungs,

My tears falling onto my father’s coat.

Creative Writing Poetry


As the artist is taught to see beauty, and to seek out wisdom,

The spirit of truth seizes him, and doesn’t let go-

Breath catches as the transcendent unfolds,

Any shell of false disdain falling away.

Before his eyes the face of the Creator appears,

And he sees that his Lord has a face not different from his.

Meek and mighty, the Artist of all

Loves all, saves all, sees all.

Creative Writing Poetry

At the birth of autumn, the moon and Jupiter and the porch light

Pierce the night, uncovering the thievery of raccoons in the grapevines.

I, too have been given my daily bread and been given what is good –

In these things, I know that I am loved, and feel that I am home.

Creative Writing Poetry

I’ve got an uncomfortable feeling,

Like a toddler’s heels digging into my thighs,

Or like a dream where all of me is moving through molasses.

I just want to close my eyes and sleep, since nothing calms me.

I wonder what it’d be like to have agnosia,

Or aphasia, to see brightness and not call it anything,

To just listen to someone’s voice for the beauty of it.

It’s terrible of me to say, but it oddly sounds nicer than anything.


Spring mosquito

There’s a mosquito in my basement

And I wish it would get out –

It’s buzzing round my bitten neck,

The dreadful demon lout.


Boxes and bags, a story time

I was at Costco with dad, and he was paying for the parking

When a stranger ambled by, wondering aloud,

Boxes? What’s up with these boxes? Does Target only have boxes too?

Without transition, he directed the question at me (apparently),

Don’t they give you bags at Target?

Poor man, guess he’ll never know!

‘Cause I just stood and stared in silence, guarding my cart, wondering why on earth he was talking to me

And reflexively refused to converse with this think-alouder.

I was woozy and just wanted to eat my pizza.

How dare you ask me whether they have bags at Target.


There’s some barbed needle making its way through my chest.

It throbs, but I can only let it sink deeper.

For, if I grasp tight and pull, it will only resist,

And swiftly put me out of my

Precious misery.

Creative Writing Poetry


By living this way, I am killed, every day.

Mirage after mirage, my hands pass only through thin air, and I’ve come to loathe the sight of shimmering water.

It’s funny, how invention is most visceral to me;

My mind and spirit swell with its overpowering resonance –

I, who would long to love truth more than anything.

From the beginning, so much is full of contrivance…

No soul may ever really honor the right to know another.