I’m a part of a poetry group that meets once a week to read and review each other’s writings. It had been a few weeks since I had written anything and as the meeting was approaching I felt that I needed to bring something. I had about an hour and a half and I’m looking through my notebook to see if there’s anything I could use. I start writing a poem about a night I spent with friends and conflicting emotions I felt not only from myself but from them with themselves and toward other people – confusing, right? Anyway, I didn’t think it was working.

But something sparked. And I started writing something else entirely. And I was really content with it, but also scared out of my mind. I felt as though what I had just written was something from the deepest parts of my soul. It was that moment that made me think and wonder if I had truly shown my soul to anyone before that poem.

But I took it to the group and they helped me with edits, gave me constructive criticism – I feel as though there resides the next Ginsberg or Williams or Angelou within this group.


I’m a struggling writer,
one who has lost touch with the art – with the ability to write something
worth reading
worth caring about.
other writers become scientists
scrutinizing every faulty element
every disease
every germ –
minor ones, maybe,
but they’re all precursors to the soul of the matter
the disease that can “the end” my life
I search for the answer in prescriptions and formulas,

avoiding the perfect remedy I know exists

there are times when I start down that homeopathic – natural – way of life – road
but I’m so addicted to the drugs –
to the words and advice of the scientists
that I digress yet again
telling myself there’s time
because it’s just benign
but in the back of my mind
I know it’s malignant

this malignant cancer coursing through my vessels and veins –
the cancer that damns up the flow of words
from soul
to heart
to mind
to hand
to pen
to page


The Yellow Canary

Hopefully the poem will explain itself in the end. Anything more could ruin it. It’s been an interesting few weeks.

I smile at the friend with two yellow canaries
flitting furiously
– as birds tend to do when with joy
back and forth from one finger perch to another

one flies to me
a bond made as quickly as Michigan and Ohio weather changes
the scenes change
people change
this yellow canary –
always given the option of liberation
but the yellow ball of puffy feathers does not see me as its enslaver
but as its friend
as its charge
like I am something to be watched over
so it stays

I wake feeling abandoned when I realize
it was just a dream

Haikus from a break

A few haikus I wrote over Spring Break while visiting a friend in Columbus.

Day of spring weather
Basking in the sun deeply

Rice I only have
But it fulfills me ever so

Eat Lady “Mamma”
Smooth, crunchy, spicy, tasty
Good like Black Mamba

I only stayed for a night. The next day we ate at Bravo’s (never been before, but I think Bravo’s is what those Olive Garden commercials are trying to achieve in their actual restaurants) and saw The King’s Speech, which I highly recommend to all, young and old, although I was probably one of three young people in that theatre. It’s surprising the age demographic Colin Firth seems to bring out of the retirement community. On my way home I was stuck in business traffic, those wanting to return to the comfort of their suburbia homes with the wife, two children, one cat and two dogs. Finally close to home, I was struck with another poem, probably  not genius like I just made it sound, but nevertheless, I’m excited to share it with you. (I do want to let you know that I actually wrote this poem while behind the wheel).

Route 30

The National sings to me,
saying I live in a Lemonworld with my sister.
As I do my best to melt my fat molecules
into the wearing polyester seat
with straight posture and tucked in belly,
so not even I notice its presence,
I slow my speeding 85
to Ohio’s sloth-like 60 – maybe 65 –
for the State Trooper – you never know their moods –

It’s been a long day, and
I’m only trying to get home

Tonight’s wing night –
how we fly
for food

currently untitled

i wish this coffee mug was filled with wine
empty sticky notes no longer blank
but brimming with notes and scribbles
of dedication
chocolate cake only consoles you up to
then you’re shit outta luck
until, of course, you serve yourself another
though eventually, that cake’s gone baby gone
but they’re just phony endorphins