Creative Writing

I know I’m not alone, but can’t shake the want for home, in the deepest sense.

Sojourners, in the mountains, on the plains and shores, each isolated, in our own way, nomads till we breathe our last, strangers in a foreign land.

This is torment, but it is good to see – good to see that our home cannot be here, wise to realize it is here that we must leave, no matter where we stay longest or settle most permanently.

Who will join us on the lonely road? I wish I could know. I wish I wasn’t by myself in this house, though I share it even now.

So much I can say, and so much I can do. So little, so little can I say to sow truth, in the way I know it.

So I will open my eyes and take it all in. Help me listen with all my mind. I wish to treasure my friends and fellow artists at heart. Creator, they mirror you, in so many ways. They know but do not acknowledge, and I am left bargaining with my soul and theirs.

To the Jew, and to the Greek, grant your salvation on this hilltop of boulders laced with wildflowers. I wish them to bloom forever, through an eternity of painted sunrises and morning praise.

Creative Writing Poetry

Taken, granted

Beholding the embodiments of words that I’ve written is a peculiarity, and I know even more firmly

That it is, but isn’t up to me.

It really isn’t, and yet I’m given free rein

To make sacred spaces, in places like my heart

Or in the garden of an old house with withering birch trees obscuring its front.

A herald on the wind, lilacs by the walk –

See the light as you enter in, under the arbor,

Into an abode I was given, to make it my own and His –

For nothing other than the holy reasons of love and goodness.


I’ve been reminded

If you’ve seen me, you’ve seen it:

What pushes my eyebrows together;

What clutches at my heart and mind.

If you’ve heard me, you’ve heard it:

What looks like silence or empty sound, but is words turned inward,

And I unknowingly wish ill for myself.

I know God, and I’d never think to extinguish this –

Yet, I forget vigilance, and the dark swallows my light, since it cannot have me.

If you’ve known me, you’ve known it,

And if you’ve felt me, you’ve felt it,

And now, I see it, hear it, know it, and feel it –

Please, remind me of goodness and of pastimes

In a form that I can revel in –

That I’ll preserve with present

And future joy.

Favorites Poetry

Drawn curtains

Close the drapes, quickly.

There, between the trees,

Are wraiths that know far too much

From ages of haunts and plots.

So, shut out the light,

And in doing so,

The darkness with it.

Favorites Poetry

Ski lift

Up high above the slopes, dangling from a single cable,

I realize with shock that, if clamps failed and chair crashed,

If someone was with me, I’d take comfort in the fact

That at least it would make two of us.

Stories Thoughts and Entries

You are in a room

You are in a room, or at least you think you are. It is pitch black on all sides, save for the light shining from the single, round skylight above you.

You spend your days standing, sitting, laying down under the skylight. You sometimes pace along the border of the circle of light, sometimes sleep, sometimes talk to your self, or imagine someone is there with you, listening to you, and talking to you.

Sometimes, you venture outside the spot of light. You walk some feet, even dozens perhaps, across the wooden floor. It creaks in some spots, which makes you shiver. You look ahead – there is nothing but thick blackness. Behind, the lighted area threatens to shrink and disappear altogether, and so you return in haste before you go much distance at all.

One day, you wake up, and what is before your eyes is darker than sleep. The skylight is gone. Or, at least, what gave it its light has gone out. There was no sense of direction in the first place, but now, not even the distance between the floor and ceiling is discernible. You can only hear your own heartbeat and breath increase in frequency as your stomach drops.

You wonder whether you should move, or wait for something to happen. You wait for a spell – the light does not come back. Colors start to swim in the darkness before your eyes. You cautiously stand up. You can’t see your body – not even your hands – you can only feel it. You take a deep breath, and begin to walk; the direction has no significance.

You walk for what seems like a whole day. Whether you turn, slow, or quicken, it is hard to sense. You only know that you haven’t stopped.

Then, in your peripheral vision, there is a glow which flickers warmly through the black fog. Your eyes fixed on it, you turn, and draw closer. The light issues from a candle in a holder, which sits on a round table. The flame dances merrily, its orange and yellow and green and blue all melded into one small, soft tongue of fire.

A few feet beyond the table, the light from the candle illuminates an end to the floor. A solid surface cuts into it, rising up, and goes side to side in a straight line – it is a wall. You press your hand against it, and an inexplicable excitement rises in your throat, escaping as a cry of joy.

Picking a direction, you eagerly follow the wall, bringing the candle with you. Not long, and the wall has already brought you to something else: another wall. It meets the first one at a perpendicular angle – a corner.

Built into the corner is a door, attached to the wall by metal hinges and which has a knob at waist-level.

Your observations are interrupted by the frantic flickering of the candle, which alerts you to the fact that it has burnt quite low. The light dims quickly, and in a few seconds will go out altogether.

You look at the door again. You reach out and, turning the knob, open it.