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.

Poetry Thoughts and Entries

What is a drawing, other than the end of a line?

Draw me out, with brittle charcoal and whittled pencil

Onto whatever surface you can find.

After all, don’t I look better on paper

Than under those merciless rays that overwhelm the outdoors?

Where the external is viewed in however many angles,

And the reflected light is equal parts piercing and protective?

Here, my veins aren’t visible; you don’t see a single pimple or stray strand

Or even what the outline of my face looks like.

Here, in a line or two, the internal is traced, a strand of genotype that was never expressed.

Right, left, right, left, right, and then left again;

Though a dimension is lacking, it is almost easier to get lost.


Put Away Your Phone

Put away the phone, they say.

Your eyesight will start to wither away;

You don’t want to wear eyeglasses

Before your fiftieth birthday.

Your vision will slowly fade to black

And your ears will try to make up for the lack 

Of light striking your retina.

You’ll hear the crawling of sticky spider legs

And the hoarse breathing of the man on the corner who begs,

Birds laying eggs,

Workmen hammering pegs,

People in McFadden’s Saloon downing kegs upon kegs.

Your ears will receive sensations that will drive you mad;

You’ll go batty and wacky and become oh so sad.

PLEASE, don’t stare at your phone, it’s bad;

It’s not worth it-

Don’t be like your dad.