Category Archives: self


just when i think i can see
when i think i’ve caught a glimpse
of a familiar landmark
a clue to where i should turn next
it’s disappears
it simply vanishes
into the shadows of doubt
that surround me in your absence

i look around for a friendly face
someone i could trust to guide me
but everyone feels like a stranger
even the image in the mirror
stares back at me, like a child
and the children riding with me
are simply counting the days
till you return

i’m lost without you


In My Way

the goal is clear
the path is not
it is guarded
by a familiar foe
a powerful legion
anticipates every move
one thousand men
with just one face

the goal is clear
the path is too
i just need to get out
of my own way


the line

he could see the line
it was there, always there
constantly daring him to cross

he even liked it
he flirted with the line
taunted it from a distance

but he had chosen a path
a comfortable, winding path
that would never force him to cross it

and then one day
suddenly and without warning
the path brought the line closer than it had ever been

the line sprang to life
startled, he stared at the line
and the line gazed back at him

with eyes and mouth
and body and spirit it spoke
and called his name and begged him

to leave the path


Glutton For Punishment – A Haiku

you fooled me once, shame on you
second time’s on me
number three? simply painful


her first letter

her words were written on the page
but they had lips
and they spoke without the rage
that used to be us

i could hear her voice
inside my heart of hearts
so familiar i cried
for the first time since the end

for a moment
i wished she were near
holding me while i cried
telling me i had nothing to fear
making me believe it

but my tears fell on hardened ground
this heart of mine
and soon i couldn’t hear the sound
of her familiar voice inside my heart

it waits now in silence
ready to be torn apart
by more words from her


after reading the first letter from cindy… after several years apart.

the ignorance of youth

i crap more sense in one day
than you spew out your pie hole in a year
and still you walk around smug
and clueless, grinning from ear to ear
because i struggle to find a way
to force you to shut up for once and hear
that i don’t like you or your ideas.
i wish i could make myself perfectly clear
serously! this look on my face?
that’s not me grinning. it’s a snear!
yet here i stand, patting you on the back
acting like i think you’re my peer

your ignorance must truly be bliss
but mine makes me want to just disappear

reflecting on a younger version of me

The Glider

The glider on my Mamaw’s porch seemed old, even when it was brand new. I’m not sure anyone but her noticed when it arrived. She had a love for floral patterns that bordered on fanatical. A gaudy display of fake flowers spread out across every piece of furniture like Poison Oak. So too, the glider was covered. It fit in with the rest of the furniture from it’s very first day.

my mammaw’s porchIt was not a favorite piece for anyone but her, except when it rained. Then it was my favorite piece.

On rainy days, the sound of the drops on tin above my head was rhythmic and soothing. If I laid back and hung my leg off the glider just right, the tip of my big toe would scrape the porch floor, effortlessly creating a motion that seemed in perfect time with the water. Eyes closed, hands behind head, I would lay for as long as my cousins would allow and just drift away.

I spent my childhood summers in West Virginia. Rainy days in the Appalachian heat seemed magical and all too infrequent. They always brought a chill and calmed the frenetic pace of play and work. And they always signaled their arrival in advance.

You could hear the rain marching toward the house through the trees. My cousins would head to the basement, which was always cool, but I would invariably head to the glider. It was my transportation to an imaginary place that changed with each downpour. The rhythm triggered thoughts of what could be, of what could have been. They weren’t so much dreams as hopes. I would swing and hope – and pray.

I was a teenager then. I’m 45 now. That glider is long gone, and so are the innocent hopes and dreams of a child in it’s arms. But the memory of those moments make me smile and wish for a cool rain, a tin roof, a gaudy glider and some free time.


Does She Hear Me

i say i love you every chance
i get
hoping  she can hear
and yet
wondering if my words
are met
with joy or hidden fear
by childhood dreams
i know she hears and still
i fret

in the moment

forcing it

i need
to force it
than a  bit
sit, commit
make the words fit
chomping the bit
fighting, submit
feeling unfit
acting legit
start writing

don’t quit

2:16am forcing a poem

215 To 195

i keep looking at the scale
hoping that it’s lied
but it just looks right back at me
screaming, “two one five”

i remember one eight three
saw one nine one arrive
and leave, now I’d be pleased
t0 see one ninety five

i need to get back in shape