"The ugliest habits of the heart Those well-worn paths that often are, Too often are the most familiar; Those are the hardest to despise. As if those pillars of fire and ice, In turning times guiding the Israelites, In purest nature, wholly guides, When isolate, enemies of mine. For that which is nature and never by chance, The deepening snow and the barren branch, Wind at the speed of a barreling lance And a heart that is crushed in a single glance If cruel, still bring comfort in semblance." "I first had the idea for this poem while driving back to school after a winter break. I had passed a ..read more

We've never had the pleasure of meeting in person but we are a great admirers of your work. We wanted to discuss with you a project we're working on. We are personally concerned by the relegation of poetry to a niche interest group made up of those who write poetry. In previous times, poetry was understood as holding the wisdom of a people, and in later times the wisdom of a person. We seem to have lost any grounded understanding of a person’s wisdom in favor of the wisdom of a sort of professional. We would like to, in our own small way, begin to remedy that. We think that this can be in part ..read more

"Houses made from brick and stone Refuse to give their homage Their backs are straight and stern as men Whose sitting chair is courage. For they were made by breaking backs And labor done in heat With blood that’s spilt upon the ground To make the corners neat. The rushing wind is harmless now As is the sun and rain For walls are built with brick and stone To stand against the pain. It seems that demons pound their fists Upon them day and night, To rip the children from their beds And disappear from sight. But old brick houses turn them back Refuse them at the door. For they were built to stan ..read more

"Strange footprints mark the narrow path I tread Smooth, where my boots leave pockmarks in the snow; Inviting indents winding on ahead Say that another’s gone the way I go. Who else has seen the skeletons of flowers Raising their snow-filled cups to toast the snow; The blackened criss-cross of the branchy bower— Whose shadows hatch the whitened ground below? Someone unmet who may prove worth the meet; Some friend unknown who may be known e’er long; Some stranger strange no longer when we greet?— But wait—my first epiphany was wrong. Would that these prints were from an unknown muse, Instead of ..read more

"Rest your head upon my lap And listen to my song Close your eyes and bend your ears Right where you belong. Hear my tale and know my heart, Half hidden in the words I’ve spoken to a blade of grass A truth as sharp as swords. I do not have the words to say The things that I may see, The thoughts that I have thought about, The person I may be. But if you listen, you may hear The song my soul does sing It whispers like a breaking wave Or as a bell does ring ..read more

"i fear'- the Dark unless you are here i know-; there is Time for us yet i think', it will only Be a few nights on the floor 2:19 AM 2/14/2019 i feel/' the thought of you for you are my warmth i hold.{ my love For you within loosely cupped hands i love you Only when you should be loved i can't think When that would not be" "I consider Love #1 to be the result of bored "sketching" during Philosophy of the Human Person. The base contents have not been altered from the first draft, however, I did change the visuals when I transferred it to digital as visual-based poetry that's not always intended ..read more

"The towering oak dipped his crooked fingers into the sky, His rich green leaves stirring the soft, rose-blushed clouds Which draped themselves demurely across its glowing expanse. The luminous half-moon pokes his intrusive eye through that resplendent array of gold, purple, pink, and yellow, forewarning the passing of this at once homely and sacred pleasure. For a time, he must reign, bathing the sky in his stately silver glow. Though the earth below is singing, the sky is all a’ hush now and he pulls the veil of slumber o’er the land of that towering oak, promising to remove his gentle veil ..read more

“We men of clay spend all our days toiling among the boglands We build up homes, and dreams, and hopes, but time just seems to find them Broken down and desolate, the weeds have long been squatters Oh tell me why we dare to dream, to build long after Eden? These heaps of stone, like old dry bones, just crumble into dust What once was Troy? What once was Giza? They are but things ephemeral A pillar here, a tombstone there, both nation and man deceased ‘Utopia!’ our history cries, a word now so funereal” “During my last trip to Ireland, I spent one of my last afternoons in the Kerry countryside ..read more

“Cathedral glass tells a story through historical height, Which overlooks the congregation in candlelight. Colors are pieced to tell of ones holy; words of color, Which are raised in windows worked in wonder, And stained in reds, blues, and shades of purple hues, Are like veiling lights which shine on our pews. The choir loft holds a resisting organ of ages; It is tested by encountering progressive changes, By war and famine, theft, and destruction Until one turning fire destroys its production. The flames of the century’s growing condition Creates a lack of integrity and conviction. The cathe ..read more

"Nightwind like dead air on the radio. Wolves or coyotes, wailing lost children. The trick is to stay alive right now, a friend said. This is my first life, the only one I’ll remember until I don’t. Then it’s flipping switches and shooting out the lights. A bellyfull of wine sloshing around as the year end comes creeping on. The trick is to stay alive, to close our mouths and move through the dark, toungeless as monks. Easy enough in the summer, when the dogwoods bloom and the cicadas guide you on and out. But Winter is something else entirely." "For me, writing is best when I let ideas and im ..read more