Category Archives: Poetry

The only way I know how to paint – with words.

To the soldier who rescued our flag in the rain

It fell down when the bracket broke
while I was away at work.
I called my wife as soon as it started raining
to have her shelter anything that was outside.
She was at home taking care of two babies
by herself and couldn’t answer the phone.
The fabric of the flag got soaked in the pouring rain,
and the extra weight bent the bracket down
until the flag slipped out and fell
to the ground under the dripping eaves of the house.
You saw it there—the flag for which which you had given
your sweat and blood and so much of your life,
the flag you defended overseas,
the flag for which your buddies died in the dirt—
you saw it there, caked in mud, and
you didn’t even hesitate.

Though I wasn’t there I can almost see you,
propping your collar up against the
soaking sheets of incoming water
as you slammed the car door
then raced across the swampy grass
in shoes far less suited than combat boots
to pick up the flag and roll it carefully
before knocking on the door
to hand it to my wife.
You told her that you were a soldier,
and that the mud was
“no place for a flag to be.”

Dear soldier who rescued our flag in the rain,
Lest you consider me indifferent,
I want you to know that I have the deepest respect
for men and women like you
who have sacrificed to sustain a country
in which I can leave my wife and daughters at home,
and know they’ll be dry and safe from the storms of the world.

Dear soldier who rescued our flag in the rain,
I want you to know that I honor our flag
and all it represents,
which is why I fastened the bracket
to the front of my house and proudly
fly it there as often as I can, and
I want to tell you how grateful I am
that you braved yet another storm
to uphold and protect our flag.

Hands (Inspired by “Hairs” by Sandra Cisneros)

Everybody in my family has different hands.
Ayden’s hands are short and agile for a two year old.
They love to turn the pages of books, fit puzzle pieces
together, and play games on touch screens.
Ellie’s hands are small and slow.
She reaches up to be held and rubs her sleepy eyes
with her chubby little fist.
Her hands love to clap and explore textures.
My hands are coarse, hard and practiced,
dexterous as a monkey climbing a tree.

But my wife’s hands,
my wife’s hands are soft and thin
and fair like a porcelain doll,
smooth as a polished vase but warm
as a mountain meadow in springtime and
every bit as fragrant,
and gentle,
gentle as a silken petal brushing my cheek,
and when she touches me
her hands are the doll,
the vase,
the meadow in Spring,
the pedal on my cheek—
and everything.

Love and Hatred

Which is more powerful, 
love 
or hatred?

Hatred of a race,
a circumstance,
a condition,
has rallied millions under its banners 
to fight
and kill
in ways we are ashamed 
to think or talk about. 
It has formed nations, 
raised armies, 
showered wealth on victors,
heaped sorrows on the unfortunate,
hollowed untold graves for both,
and filled them
with thier sons and daughters.

But love
of money,
of power, 
of land, 
of resources, 
of God(s)
has rallied,
murdered, 
and buried 
just as many.

Perhaps love and hatred 
are equally matched
because they are extremes 
of the exact same emotion.

Utilitarianism

Should I write because I can
or only when I have something to say?
Do I write to build the facade of a writer
or because I need to express my thoughts
and feel I do that best in written form?
If the latter, why doesn’t my journal suffice?
Do I need my words to be read
and appreciated by strangers?
But writing is an act of faith
in the permanence of
the words being written,
and inherent in that faith is a trust
that someone will (eventually) read
and enjoy what’s recorded.
Is art a selfish process then,
used to inflate the ego of the creator,
or is it all presumption,
undertaken by those who
think they have valuable insights
that no one else has had?
Why do I even ask these questions?
Writing makes me happy, so I write—
but even that is rather utilitarian of me to say.

I’m From

I’m from “work hard and you’ll succeed,”
from purple mountains and thumb sticks,
from haystacks and mutnicks,
from Pokémon and Power Rangers,
from picture books and Animorphs.
I’m from the smell of brine salt and cattails,
from catfish and rainbow trout,
from sagebrush, scrub oaks and aspens,
from glacial lakes and star-choked skies.
I’m from analog signals and black and white screens,
from libraries and late nights.
I’m from tackle football in the snow and Hatchet.
I’m from “Country Road” and “Lose Yourself,”
from aleternative, punk rock, and post hardcore.
I’m from wooden playgrounds and DOS,
from prison-pipeline gangs and Sunday School.
I’m from Y2K, September 11th,
and first generation Xbox controllers.
I’m from Hobbiton and Hogwarts,
I’m from $1.00 Big Macs and Fufu Berry Soda,
from Blindside, Smith and Edwards,
and Western Family.
I’m from public schools
and Mrs. Felt’s AP English Class.
I’m from Robert Frost and Harper Lee,
from my best friend’s living room,
and even from the Bible Belt.
I’m from these and a thousand other places,
and I still visit them sometimes
in poetry
and in my mind.

Mythology

We set my phone’s alarm ahead
then said our prayers and went to bed.
The beeping woke me from my sleep
when the event was at its peak.
I thought that dreaming changed your mind,
but if it had you were too kind
to tell me so, and so we crept
past the room where Ayden slept,
unlocked the door with with quiet hands,
and gazed up at the bloodred sands
a quarter of a million miles away:
the wolf-god Hati’s ancient prey.

From the starry depths of Mimir’s sky,
in the cloud of myth it hides behind,
God’s single, crimson-shrouded eye
rolled over the world, cold and blind.

Timeless

When I lay here with you 
like this
I feel as if we’re boulders
touching in a mountain stream,
and time rushes onward 
all around us,
fast with a Spingtime thaw
or slow with slushy frost—
now choked with leaves 
and broken sticks
now thundering by 
in seething foam.
The seasons blur before us
and wash the world
downstream
around us,
but here we are
like boulders:
languid,
immovable,
and timeless.

Sagebrush Kings

The sagebrush kings
with bony crowns
patrol the mountainside,
pacing well-worn paths
and pausing periodically to watch.
Ears high,
eyes straining,
nostrils wide,
they keep their silent vigil.
A sound,
a movement,
an unfamiliar smell
is an invitation to a war
that they can never win.
A huff calls the retreat
into their scrub oak strongholds
where they’ve ruled
for countless seasons
and forged their gaudy diadems
on an anvil made of caution.