I started writing poetry in the eighth grade; and in the years since, writing poems has almost become a habit. Admittely, I’ve had some years where I’ve been off and on, but I always seem to come back to the words.
When I was in high school, I self-published nearly a collection every year. Those books are, blessedly, gone from the internet and the world, and exist only on a very, very small handful of shelves. I haven’t ruled out further self-publishing in the future, but, for now, I’m happy to simply keep writing and sharing individual poems as I go.
I love writing sonnets; that’s something I talk about here.
I fell in love with sonnets early on in my poetic career. I’m not sure if I can trace it back to an individual poem or poet – certainly Shakespeare’s were among the first sonnets I heard – but even…
During 2019, I decided to start writing a sonnet a day. As of right now, I’m only 19 days into that challenge, but I plan on sticking it out and coming up with some good stuff. You can follow along on Medium or Instagram. #YearOfSonnets
2018, after E. LeFey We were dreamers, saw light in fey colorsbeyond what the world knew. We turned our eyesto see past the static lust, dust disguised as gold,saw pain. That we alone were feeling? No,but everyone hid it well - masks made out of skinhiding the ghostlights dead within.
2018. A self portrait of an ideal self. He is there, in some other life that runsperpendicular to my eyelids, a dream perhaps,but built with the bones of life, minuspossibility, the chance to be, but real enough – Veins and nerves shaped after city blocks,hands familiar with brownstone and steel,bound in with a dozen million souls,is it possible to feel lonelywhere all hearts congregate?
You put your heart to sleep, buried the spark that flashed like flame before the Reaper dropped;accustomes to the pulseless heavy start that filled your heart when all the planet stopped.
SonnetSunday I dream of love as children dream of God,some mystery that makes the planet whole,beyond all comprehension, wonder, awe;men helpless to this mighty magnet’s pull. But I am flawed, this soul cannot computethe chemicals from whence love plays its lure.I do not know these songs, no lyre, no flute - as for a beating heart, I am not sure.
After Amy Sarig King, 2015 I can feel my bones. I have bones, I think;it seems my skin is slipping, slack and pooling. And what are muscles? Atrophy sets in;I diminish, dust and empty clothescarried on electric cool currents,strewn across this living room. Living? Yes. Dammit, I’m alive.A dustpan, please.