Daddy’s Fixing a Pocketknife

Daddy’s Fixing a Pocketknife


He stands in the kitchen and twists

the screw that holds the blade in place.

He hunches over, the glasses

that magnify firmly on nose,

and drives it as delicately

as a dancer. His hand pliés

and pirouettes near the blade

never losing balance. He stops,

looks at me, and sighs, wanting to teach

me a dance I never want to learn.

The Hiker

The Hiker


When the sun gleams against the mountains, the birds begin to glow,

singing sons of innocence. Squirrels frolic in the heat,

toppling on one another, dancing to their own beat. A row


of ants climb up, up, up, trading coarseness of bark for coolness (the chill)

of fresh morning leaves. Dew dries away, fog begins to form,

the sun creates a whole new world, ready to explore. Warm

air rises fast from heavy lungs as the hiker climbs the hill,


he looks to the tress and smiles. A brand new day, a fresh start.

He removes his jacket and his bag, places them on the leaves.

He watches the sun rise in the sky, dangle above the trees,

knowing it will only last moments before having to part.

Mommy’s Cooking Soup

Mommy’s Cooking Soup


Better Than Bouillon boils in the pot, waiting

for Mommy to stir. She twists the spoon in her hand,

grazing scraped metal, watching for the water

to pop!, for the vegetables to rise and fall, waves

raging against the sea, reaching for the sky.


I don’t tell her I hate the sound of the spoon

crawling across the pot, metal on metal,

sloshing the contents until they gurgle.

I smile and nod, watch her stir, hover

over the heat like it’s her purpose in life.

All For Me

This is my third year doing the marathon. The marathons of 2017 and 2019, though, had a core focus. This year, however, those focuses have melted away, leaving nothing behind. And as I sat and wondered what in the world was going to be my muse, I realized something. This year, it’s all for me. I’m my own muse. It’s my turn. My turn to work through who I am, my turn to find out who I am, my turn to really soar and churn in my heart all the things that need to be churned. This year, this marathon is all for the jumbled mess that is me — no outside influences needed. 2020 isn’t the year of the other people in my life, 2020 is the year for me. So here goes nothing.


God speed and Gd bless. We all got this, together. One poet to another.




I want you as the morning stills, birds not

yet singing their songs, clouds still unformed, hiding

beneath the red horizon, waiting.


I want you as the noon shines down, blaring

like a trumpet’s call, paws and feet pounding

against the soft and hardened ground.


I want you as the sky turns to gray turns

to black, and stars begin to swirl, as the dust settles

for the night, ready to rise again day after day.

Mount Olive

Mount Olive


I saw a sign at the graveyard, Now Hiring:

Sales professional. But who would want to work

there knowing you’re the cause of more Dad,

you’re the coolest balloons floating in the wind?

I block out the sun with light

I block out the sun with light


of my own, flip the switch and shine

brightness into shadows, scaring

the demons away. Crosses hang

on my walls, but don’t protect

me from the dark. So I turn

on my lights and block out the sun

rising boldly in the sky.




Corpus Cristi is tomorrow, noon on the dot.

Church bells will chime, ringing in people who will flood

the pews and spill into the aisle, standing room

only. I rub my eyes and blink real hard, making

the bright lights blur. Stayed up all night writing

poems that wouldn’t leave my head, imprinted

on my heart. I stare at the marble floor, tracing

the little rocks with my eyes, trying not to fall

asleep, the homily’s words just a buzz in my ear,

an echo in my heart that I fail to hear.

It feels so good

It feels so good


To lie next to you, bodies warm

against the cool night air. We watch

the sky fade to gray and pull

the covers up to our chins and sigh.

Our cheeks flush with new warmth, and eyes

twinkle with sleep, then sky grows pink

and birds start to tweet and stars fade

away. But the moments of night remain.