Poems

Abyssal Fury In the depths of despair the abyss awakens,its wrath unfurls as foundations are shaken.Beneath the surface, secrets seethe,in deep dark dens where shadows breathe. Tumultuous tides tear at the trust,abyssal fury, forged from the dust.Echoes of anger etched in the deep,where silent sorrows ceaselessly weep. Wrath of the abyss, wild and unbound,in the […]

A Lady of Precision Rage A lady of precision rage in a house that she rebuilt,she’s the lullaby of murder, the original crimson bride,and if you hear her counting steps–there’s nowhere left to hide.The floorboards squeak in rhymes, the walls can’t keep the screams,and anyone who sleeps there wakes in someone else’s dreams.The axe? Still

After the funeralthe house felt wrong. Not haunted.That would have been simpler. Only wrongin the way cups on the tableand coats over chairsand dishes in the sinkcan keep doing their plain jobswhen one person is goneand the room knows it. People spoke softlyfor a while,which almost made it worse.Forks touched plates.Water ran.Somebody asked who wanted

The field in winter was all stubble,brown and cut down, low and plain.No big speech in it.No red barn picture look.Just frozen ground,a ditch gone hard,weeds with frost on them,and fence posts leaning like old menwho knew a good bit and said less. I liked it better than summer sometimes.Summer tries too much.Winter lets things

My notebook fills in winter fast.The pages seem to take ink betterwhen trees are bareand fields look bluntand every road is bordered upby dead grass, ditchwater, fence, and weather. In summer I go out more.In winter I stay inand words begin to act important.Some are good words.Some are only words pretending.I cannot always tell. I

My Sunday suit had stiff new pantsAnd shoes that always shined too much.The collar scratched. The sleeves felt wrong.The whole thing made me watch my hands. Church clothes ask a lot of you.Sit straight.Walk right.Keep still.Do not tear this.Do not stain that.Do not become the boywho slides down a dirt bankafter serviceand comes home looking

I saw a girl at the skating rinkand that is the whole trouble. Not that she spoke to me.Not that I spoke to her.Not that anything happenedworth putting in a grown-up story. She just went by oncewith her hair coming looseand one hand brushing it backand her laugh already turned awaybefore I could hear the

By seven the stores were nearly done,the sidewalks thinning one by one,the barber pole no longer bright,the drugstore windows full of night. A truck went by. A dog barked twice.The air had that clear evening bitethat made the whole town seem held backbetween the dark and leftover light. I used to think small towns were

The streetlight came on before darkAs if it knew something I did not.The evening was not gone yet,only dimming around the edges,yet there it was,that yellow globebuzzing over the roadlike a warningor a promiseor a tired eye refusing sleep. I stood in the yard longer than neededwatching moths throw themselves near it,small pale thingstoo faithful

They told me to smilelike this was simple. Tilt your head a little.Not too much.Shoulders down.Chin up.Try not to look stiff.Try not to look fake.Try not to blink.Try to look like yourself,only better. That may be the whole jokeof senior pictures.A final official liewhere you are expected to look cheerful, finished, fit for framing,right while