Poetry

I must warn you that I am terribly sensative about my poetry. My poems are always evolving. Rarely is one ever completely finished. Constructive criticism from a literary perspective welcomed.

This is a poem I wrote in the late 1990s.

Untitled

Don’t whine at me about
Newspapers
Fallen leaves
My size nine feet

There are things I still remember

Like the summer you
Painted me beautiful
And the orchids that were
Mine to smell

The last revision on this one was in November of 1999. I lost all of my previous versions.

Autumn

This is for you
clever bastard–
releasing the leaves
outside my window and
splashing color on my lawn.
You danced in my mind for days then
blew away with the wind.
Now the grass is just green
and I miss your hue.

It’s true--
I still linger by the window
every autumn,
half expecting you to return,
but know you are away
coloring someone else’s lawn.

This was written in 1999 and has been revised through 2003. It isn't finished because I still don't like it much.

Untitled

I can see you as clearly
as the fenceline

shoulders rounded
face slightly tilted down
the last five years of burgers and fries
tripping
over your belt

a quick brush of your hand
sweeping your hair back
then the
pat pat pat
of your spreading fingers
pressing it back down

yes, I can see you
clearly