Gentle Reflection

In the reflection are my eyes
And they glow in the morning sun.
Through a frosted glass,
The shadows of leaves, scattered holes
Are basking along the window.

In the reflection are my eyes
And the light which emerges,
Is soft.
The light is white and calm;
Tranquil as the tale of the sea.
And I cannot look away,
Not from the reflection,
Not from my eyes.

And the sun which sifts through
Is warm on my skin.
The sun is gentle on my face
And in an instance I am stoic.
In an instant, I am beautiful,
If only for this moment.
I am smiling.


Shh! as the steel door retract. 
The eyes begin to fall on you. 
All sound must cease, that is fact
And your silence is held by the few. 

Now as the box ascends upward
Stand in formation with others.
The wrapping of cables is heard
While personalities are under covers. 

Don’t watch. Don’t turn. Don’t look.
No good comes to those who peep;
For they are made temporary crooks. 
Only disdain is what they reap.

The box stops and the wall chimes. 
Someone exits and you try to breathe,
Try to compose yourself for the time
That you yourself prevent to receive. 

Now finally, after shaking
For only who knows how long,
You may finally exit the box raking
In the freedom that made you strong.

Poems In Bed

I tossed and turned.
I projected my mind on the wall
Of my bedroom.
I allowed my whimsical children
To dance around my head.
They spoke and sang.

These magics made me feel.
I felt they must be captured
And captivated
And then released.
So I wrote poems in bed
To help cage these pets of mine.

I wrote these poems in bed
Beneath my sheets.
I tossed and turned. 
I wrote these poems
Before they forever escaped me.
I wrote these poems in bed
And these magics dispersed.

I keep writing these poems,
In my bed where I write best.
I keep these magics.
I keep my children dancing;
They still sing.
I keep these poems
And they are kept in my bed. 

Covering My Ears

When I was young
I always thought that the noise I heard
When I covered my ears
With my hands,
Was a weird phenomenon.
I always covered my ears to check
If I was alive whenever it was too dark;
If I could hear the noise, I was,
But if I couldn’t, I’d guess I was dead.

Nowadays, I cover my ears and listen
To that very low growl.
I hear every muscle contracting
And the noise synchronizes
Into a loud, continuous boom;
Constant earthquakes.
I hear the blood rushing through my veins.

And then I hear that small little constant beat.
Through all the calamity of noise,
I hear that small steady rhythm.
I know that it’s my heart and it beats strong.
And when I can no longer hear the calamity,
Or the strong steady beat,
I may very well be dead.

Poetic Thinking

When I think about words
Or rather just let my mind run,
I typically think in poetry;
It’s how my mind thinks.
As I think though,
I tend to become distracted with rhyme
And the scheme of it in time;
I tend to think in aabb meter
But here and there I do teeter.
And it is something about this
Flow and ebb of an ocean I do miss
When I am forced to focus,
Unable to perform my hocus. Continue reading