The Tantrum Begins: Original Poem

I will hurl my imprecations

Into the dark, unlistening night –

A controlled explosion.

This, in tandem with

The discomfort

In knowing

That unlike when a child has a tantrum,

A simple release will not be enough

This, along with

The recognition

That this fit is just brainstorming –

Getting it down on paper

To be made coherent

Before it is used

This, while also accompanied by

The realization

That the enemy

Is not the ground

That you are pounding your fists against

This –

This is where revolutions begin.




Proclaiming Efficiency: Original Poem

He stands on a short wall that looks out towards the city

And he spreads out his arms and he yells


“I can see it!

The web I’m a part of,

Connected by hoses and wires

The people walking on the concrete conveyer belt

Putting money into the machine

Where the preprogramed hands make their coffee

Smiling confirmations of system approval

Letting go of unneeded data

Reclaiming the empty spaces for the next unnecessary update –

Proclaiming efficiency.”

Changes: Original Poem

The last few embers
Of this fire
Will only glow
For a few more hours.

The light will go out,
The heat will disappear
And we will be challenged
To start one again.

While we have memories
From around its flames,
Both good and bad,
We must not dwell on its lifelessness.

We can be grateful
For the heat that it gave
But we must focus now
On a new ignition.

An Upcoming Drought: Original Poem

You were inside my body
And as you performed your sorcery so close to my heart
I sat there as you looked at my lungs
And implied that it didn’t matter that I was drowning
And then you scored my mind with uneven patches of apathy and self-loathing
As if you were an unskilled farmer
Waiting for the rain to fall
And it did and they grew
Into mountains of missed opportunities
Spent with you in the fog
Instead of out in the open.
You sent me wandering away from life
And I’m struggling to find my way back to it
But I present evidence to you
Of an upcoming drought.

Green is the Rarest Color: Original Poem

The face on the tree is speaking again.

He tells of a world full of sin –

Men with machines that do horrible things

Like destroy what doesn’t fit in.


He remembers a time

Long, long ago

When men were good to his people.

He had lots of friends and lived a good life

Until those men turned evil.


They came by the hundreds,

The thousands, it seemed

And destroyed all the life they could see.

The ax came down on his sisters and brothers,

Leaving just a stump and a mystery.


Now he sits alone is a city park,

On a small patch of grass surrounded by concrete.

The only company he gets is during the summer

When the small, noisy children can’t stand the heat.


The face on the tree is a witness

To a crime committed by the keepers of this world.

We’ve done a terrible job, as far as he can see.

He’s the only one left,

But for some reason even he couldn’t stay.

They chopped him down when he got in the way.