Poems

Emotions and experiences put into words.​

You Know

I know that the sun will rise tomorrow morning. Most likely.

I know that when kept healthy, grass will maintain its green.

I also know that if I break my line right

There, then you will take a brief pause while reading. I know more than you think.

You know more than I think. When I say “you” I mean the general reader.

I don’t know you personally.

When I say “I” I mean me the poet.

Unless you’re reading this from your perspective. Perspective says

It all. Like pauses in poems. English literature can play tricks.

English language is full of tricks. You know that if you’ve been through school.

Or have read a book properly. Knuckles and knives to gnarly gnats.

Tough thoughts, though. It’s fun to make fun of the language we use.

When I first said “fun” I meant enjoyable. When I second said “fun” I meant mock. “Use” means speak. But you meant what I know.

And you know what I meant when I said you meant what I know.

But you know that

If you’re alive.

Vows

"In sickness and health

Until death do you both part?"

He chuckled, "Haiku."

Blue BIC Pen

Specifically blue.

Faux crystal coating on

the piston that endures longer

Than I always think. The back end

Scarred from boredom,

nervousness at a lack of ingenious,

habit. The cap is no less victimized.

Angular imprints are left on the index

Finger and side of the thumb,

Ink stains on the outside knuckles.

Edges for the tongue to carpet as

Thoughts fester as someone speaks.

It came in a plastic package of ten.

Nine other utensils to incite literature.

The point is dry, but a

Touch of saliva allows me to

Finally write about her.

Puberty

He grips the shiny razor feeling old

Surely he’s left his youthfulness behind.

Triumphant manhood knocked with dignity.

He could no longer count each single one,

Nor could his brother tease about the dirt

So frequently the butt of every joke.

Technique was taught by master of the house.

He called him “Dad.” In turn, he called him “Son.”

The first initial stroke flows with the grain,

The sound of sand sliding against the floors.

White foam now gone, a streak of skin appears.

With pride, the boy turned man, strokes down again.

He pours the after liquid on his palms

And splashes it across his fleshy face.

It burns, as TV warned, and he enjoys

The pain that comes from masculinity.

At school, he brags of this accomplishment,

Igniting envy in his infant peers.

One day, they hope to be as great as he,

But now they wish and long and fantasize.

Dead Poets

What they don’t show is

What happened to Todd Anderson,

Knox or Richard or Nuwanda.

They don’t tell us

What happens when you stand for what you believe

When you speak out against the grain

Slide perpendicular to the parallels

They don’t show

The consequences of seizing, of

Reviving Latin mantras.

They show the then,

Forsaking the than.

We are the sufferers.

We are left empty, seeking

Confirmation in our choices.

Validation for our actions

Discipleship in our beliefs.

But we don’t know how that works

Because they don’t show us.

Yet we are inspired.

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