Poetry

These are some of my favorite poems that I have written over the years. Let me know what you think!

The Funeral of the Gay Soldier

As grieving family and friends
roll by in black,
you picket with signs:
“GOD HATES GAYS”.

Yelling and shouting
at the deceased’s parents
through their car’s rear windows,

you see see his mother break
into tears and find what comfort
she can in her husband’s
chest and arms.

And he, the once disgusted
father of a homosexual,
now glares angerily at you:
the protestor that is making
a mockery of his son’s short life.

Your slanted interpretations
cloud what the bible truely asks for:
peace, acceptance, & brotherhood.

Depression 1

water pools up on the ceiling
and starts to drip
downward

the sun gleams through the dusty glass
that once was a
window

but the dripping water reflects
the sunlight back
outside

and away

Geese at Big Flats

Nature’s air force honks
frantically above.
Their formation scatters
from the shots below.

More shots sound from the
cornfield graveyard -
marked only with short,
broken stalks.

More geese fly away
towards the sanctuary
fields on the hilltop -

and towards me.

I duck into the weeds
and switch off my
shotgun’s safety. As if
the aviary’s arial view
would somehow miss
my upland orange.

The geese flare
and climb higher,
honking wildly
and reforming.

Depression 2

The fog sticks to the street
as if the street would fall without it.

It softens the landscape
for any blow the falling rain may offer.

The streetlights’ glow can’t even
seduce the fog from the familar street.

The fog singles you out
as if you sit alone -

and you do.

You swagger down the damp street,
as if the fog would lift.

Elementary School

It’s the first day of school
and you miss your mom.

Opening your lunch,
and seeing her note:
“Have a great day!”
Your stomach twists
and you want to cry.

The other kids are laughing,
talking, playing, and eating;
but, you don’t want to eat
because it rminds you of home.

But you eat – you’re hungry.

The bell rings
and the kids storm the door.
You stay seated,
and when the teacher
tells you to go outside,
you stay seated -
and start to cry.

People

people eat
people care
people meet
people stare

people talk
people feel
people gawk
people kill

people mob
people lie
people rob
people die

Menace

The spear on the wall
will soon find its way
to your head.

Meeting on the Playground

To be excused
for recess first
only pains those
still at their desks

The comforting part
for all of the rest
is that eventually
everyone will be at recess

Escape

As I lay in the mud,
where my last breath escapes,
I look up to the sun and
it warms me
as never before.
The birds – they sing,
and I laugh -
I am no one,
finally, at last.

My first Hunt

The pheasant flushes,
golden in the morning sun -
I flinch and I miss.

The Hardest Thing

The hardest thing to say
isn’t goodbye, it’s answering
the question that my sister
asked, “When mom wakes up,
is she goign to be paralyzed?”

I don’t know how my dad said
it, but he did, “Mom isn’t going
to wake up, hun.”

My sister started to cry,
as my dad gave her a hug.

I looked down and cried.

My brother gazed out
the window that was a wall
for answers to what we
all realized: our mom
was out of our lives.

My Harvest

The weight of the shotgun
becomes too much
for my left arm,
so I rest it
on my shoulder.

My mind wanders
over the rolling hills
that blue in the distance;
and I forget that I am
trudging through sage
and grass, chasing after
the plumaged cock.

But my dog snaps me back.

The pointer at a stand still,
her back straight and her
front paw slightly raised
off the frost laden ground.
I give the sign:

a gentle tap behind her ear.
She ambushes the trapped rooster
and a cackle, from the depths
of the fowl’s lungs,
resonates in my bones.

Like a crank toy, it startles
from its holding place
in chaotic harmony.
Its bronze plumage,
its Christmas-colored cowl
sparkle before me,

I freeze in its beauty.

My split second of admiration
ends lifetimes later,
when the weight
of the shotgun
reminds me of
my duty -

my harvest.

Dear Mr. President,

how are you pro-life,
but on the other hand, for
the death penalty?

Iris

I don’t want the world
to see me
because they don’t
understand,
When everything’s made
to be broken
I just want you
to hold my hand.

I’d give up forever
to touch you
but, I know that you
feel me somehow.
I guess that sooner
or later its over
I just dont want
to miss you right now.

You’re the closest
to heaven that I’ll ever be
and I don’t want to go home
right now.

Independence Day

A bundle bursts
from the mortor:
a shock to those
around (who blindly
pray for a dud).
But, in a bang,
it bursts into
an array of
emerald – afire.
The sparks
scattering sideways,
away, and apart
as they
slowly
sizzle
and
drown,
depressed,
independent.

Stuck
I want to have to pick cherries all day.
My desire is to live in a shack.
I enjoy having to flee my own country.
I want to be discriminated against.

I want hepatitis. I dont want health
insurance. I like being sick.
Healthcare is overrated anyways.

It is great to not get a job, only because
I do not know English. I want to make
less than minimum wage if I am lucky
enough to have a job. I need the
exercise from the five miles that I bike
to get turned down for a job.

I enjoy digging through garbage for food.
I am proud to feed my family from the
garbage. I try to avoid eating carbs
proteins, calcium, vitamins, food in general.

I thoroughly enjoy not having a voice.
I dont want a chance to go to school.
I enjoy risking my life, just to live here.
Not being treated like a human is why
I am here.

I am an immigrant.
I came here for a new beginning.
Where is it?
Where is my American Dream?

This Happened

Do you want to get shot?!
were the words I heard
from the man at the counter.
I couldn’t think, let alone
speak. Do you want to get
shot!? No! I screamed and
I started to weep. The
man’s hand shook and his
trigger finger twitched.
This is it, I thought and
I immediately flinched. No
shot was fired, (thank God,
he wouldn’t have missed!). A
tear dripped off my cheek
and fell to the ground, it
landed in a splat that made
the man look down. What kind
of man are you? He asked as
I said, an honest man who,
who is right now full of dread.
Honest? Is that all? Honest
never gets you ahead honest gets
you in messes, messes like
this! I will say no more,
just give me the money that is
stashed in the drawer and no
one move as I walk out the
door – just remain silent
and stay down on the floor.
As he left the establishment,
I came to realize it is not
who you are that matters in
this life it is who you kill,
rape, or just flat out abuse
that will get you ahead and
into their shoes. The ones
who are in power aren’t the
best, they are just most willing
to sink below the rest, to do
whatever it takes to be on
the top; and it is sad to
say that this is a trend
that will not ever stop. The
power that dwells in the great
minds of those in the lead
corrupts and spoils, and in
short, dirties what was once
clean. For that reason and
that reason alone, I never
want power engraved in stone.
The man who robbed me had no
good intentions – he just
dirtied his hands to get my
attention. But he will pay -
he will be caught maybe not
right away, but he will
rot. Unlike him, those in
power will never be caught.
Their scandals, cover-ups, and
lies may never be sought but
they will pay with the grime on
their soul where at the gates
it will show.

The Speeding Epidemic

Here I drive.
Seventy in a fifty-five.
A gunshot blares out of the car I pass.
The shatter of my windshield.
The pain in my arm.
My foot stomping brake.
The squealing of the tires.
My car stopped on the side of the highway.
The shooter’s car squealing to a stop.
The shooter out of his car.
The slam of his door.
His long walk to my car.
The shooter at my window.
The craziness in his eyes.
The gun in his hand.
The blood everywhere.
The sirens coming.
The sound of the butt of his gun cracking my skull.
More blood.
The sirens are closer.
The cold muzzle of the gun against my bloody temple.
The sirens here.
The man running.
The cop at my window.
His book of tickets at hand.
My bloody reflection in the steely cold stare of his sunglasses.
The words roll out of his mouth.
“Son, do you know how fast you were going?
I’m going to have to cite you for that.”