Tailfeathers, Talon Marks, and Flight: Original Poem

We cannot detach ourselves from the tailfeathers that drag the ground behind us.

They will inevitably pick up dirt.

And even when we are not involved,

The swooping motion they make as we turn away from it will no doubt leave them dangling in the debris.


We must pay attention to the marks that our talons make in the earth as we walk.

We cannot mindlessly follow the ones that are already there,

As we are prone to do.

We must be careful with every step,

Walking in accordance to new information.

We must leave behind well thought out guidance

Because those who come after us will start to follow our path before the finding of their own.


We cannot detach ourselves from the tailfeathers that drag the ground behind us.

We must pay attention to the marks that our talons make in the earth as we walk.

And we cannot open our wings and fly away in distress

While the rest of our flock in stuck on the ground.

We must go back for them and let them show us

How to take off.

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.

Original Poem: An Upcoming Drought

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.

Original Poem: Green is the Rarest Color

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.

On the Other Side of This Dream: Original Poem

Lay me down

On the other side of this dream.

I leaned over and kissed your lips

In the fire

Before we got lost in flames…

But we were heroes, man –

We saved the rest

And they will go on from here.

The damage is done

But even with the things we can’t rewrite

The survivors will finish the story.

They will inherit the fight

And so will their children

But things will be better with time.

So let your eyes close –

I wish I could see it too.

We won’t, but they will

On the other side of this dream.

We might not see any immediate effects of the changes we try to make in the world, but somebody else might someday.