One Sure Chord

Sometimes I tell stories that get reactions I don’t expect—stories of old pain, the kind I’ve carried for years. But now, I can look back on those moments and see how they shaped me, made me stronger. This poem was born from one of those times—watching someone respond in a way I didn’t see coming.

Don’t Cry for Me

Don’t cry for me. These stories

I tell are not steeped in sorrow,

though they carry the scent

of old smoke and winter rain.

They are the bark of trees

split by lightning and still standing,

the faint trace of a scar

beneath the sleeve of a collared shirt.

Yes, there were hard years—

rooms where silence curled up

in corners like a dog no one fed,

nights I fled to the hills

without hope and peace.

But I don’t speak them

to make you ache.

I speak of them because I lived.

Because I came through.

Like a thistle in the fence row

pushing up purple

through gravel and shit,

I bloomed anyway.

So let me tell it plain—

about the father who lost everything,

including respect and care,

about the mother,

who could make a feast

from a cupboard of almost nothing.

Each story, a lamp lit
on a porch that faced the dark,
not to keep us out,
but to remind us—we are here.
We made it.

So don’t cry.

Not for me.

Just listen.

And know

what we are made of.

I didn’t write anything creative today… too much work. I went back to a notebook. Write this a couple months ago and just tweaked it a bit today.

Stargazing

The sky unfolds in silence,
a velvet hush
stitched with ancient light.

I lie still,
the earth beneath me
soft and endless,
as if it, too, is watching.

One star flickers—
or maybe it remembers me.

I don’t speak.
The dark is listening.

One for the books…

Today was taxing, that’s no lie,
beneath a sunny paperwork sky.
Receipts in piles, forms in stacks,
numbers might cause heart attacks.

Coffee cooled, my patience fled,
dreams of refunds dashed instead.
April fifteenth, you sneaky thing—
with every form, you make me sing…

A tune of stress, a wry ballet,
of “Where’d that W-2 go, anyway?”
But now it's filed, the deed is done,
a taxing day, but I’ve almost won.

(Just don’t audit me, IRS, okay?)

Sunny Day at School

The sun showed up early this morning,

strong and certain across the southern lot.

It’s been gray for weeks,

and now everything feels louder, warmer,

brighter…

The kids felt it before the rest of us did.

Bouncing in before the bell,

shirts untucked, cheeks pink,

talking fast, laughing faster.

They haven't seen the sun in a while,

and today, it showed up like a promise.

Inside, things are holding together—

mostly.

Teachers with rolled-up sleeves,

fans humming even though it’s April.

Someone’s crying in the hallway,

someone else is running.

It’s that kind of day.

I open my window a crack.

It smells like warm dirt and
the cows in the neighbor’s field.

Birdsong fights with the buzz of the copier.

I let it.

We’re all feeling it—
the shift, the stretch,

like the whole building is exhaling.

I’ll circulate through classrooms,

check the lunchroom and playground,

and review the important data.

But mostly,

I’ll let the sun do what it does best—

wake us up again.

First Cut Deep…

The sun finally remembers
where I live—
stretching its fingers across
the sodden green,
that’s grown wild like IT forgot
anyone lives here.

I drag the mower from the shed
like a reluctant old dog—
it growls, sputters,
then dies again
because that’s what we do now,
me and the machine—
start, stop,
pretend we’re still young
and ready.

I add gas like a prayer,
pull the cord with a grunt
I swear echoes down my spine,
and it catches—finally—
a roar for victory. 
Maybe I’ve still got it.

Each pass is a negotiation
between blades and bones,
the damp grass clumps,
resisting, laughing…
in a green hush
beneath the mowers drone.

My knees argue with my back,
my back sends memos to my shoulder—
we're all unionizing
against this labor
but it’s the first sun in weeks
and I can’t let the world
get too wild.

So I mow
and I ache
and I breathe in the smell
of earth and gasoline,
cut crab grass and clover.

When it’s done,
the lawn is nothing special—
a bit rough, a bit proud—
just like me,
holding the silence
like a beer can.

Words and peace?

I do not 
speak of them
these days.

Not because I don’t remember,
but because I do—
too clearly.
Their faces have grown softer
with time,
but their absence
is still exact.

Grief taught me to keep my hands
in my pockets,
my eyes on the floor.
It taught me silence—
how to nod when someone says
“they lived a good life,”
and how to walk away
before the second course of conversation
brings the ache to the surface.

Now,
it is your turn—
this person, special to you—withering in pending loss,
and you look to me
perhaps I know something.
But I don’t.
I only know how to survive it,
quietly.
How to fold grief
into a corner of the drawer
and pretend it’s not there
every time I open it.

I want to tell you
something comforting,
but words feel small,
like sparrows
against the sky of what is fading.
So I walk beside you,
saying nothing
because I remember
how the world kept turning
and I couldn’t stand
its indifference.

I won’t say:
It will never go away.
I can’t say:
You’ll get used to it—
not the loss, but the carrying of it.
I don’t say
how sometimes I hear a laugh
like my mother’s
and forget she’s gone
until the laugh ends.

Instead,
I offer presence,
like a stone in your hand—
weighty,
unspoken,
real.

Modern syllabic poem 5/6 with caesura.

The sky lets go now — I step into the woosh,
boots kiss the puddles — soft echoes follow close.
The wind hums low tunes — and trees begin to sway,
each drop a drumbeat — tapping on open skin.

Streetlights blur to gold — halos in the mist grow,
fog wraps around me — a cloak of drifting breath.
I move through gray songs — stitched in silver rhythms,
feet finding silence — deeper than the storm’s noise.

Mostly a pantoum… with a couple deviations.

Getting lost in woods, where shadows play,

Trees stand tall, their whispers guide the way.

Beneath the canopy, silence resonates,

Winding paths lead me through the day.

Trees stand tall, their whispers guide the way,
Along these trails, ferns stretch far and wide.

Winding paths lead me through the day,

I lose myself where rivers softly glide.

Along these trails, ferns stretch far and wide,
The coastline beckons with its misty air,
I lose myself where rivers softly glide.
And wonder if I’m lost or truly there.

The coastline beckons with its misty air,

Among the rocks and tides, I feel at peace,
I wonder if I’m lost or truly there,
Beneath the sky, my heart begins to sway.



Among the rocks and tides, I feel at peace,

Getting lost in the woods, where shadows play,
I wonder if I’m lost or truly there,

Getting lost in Oregon’s wild array.


I’m not usually someone who offers advice but I do have thoughts. This is a rendition of a talk I might give if I were asked, in a sort of poetic way…

You Didn't Ask...

You remind me of someone.

Not me exactly, but

a version of me
with better instincts.


You’re standing

in that in-between place—

where your chest gets heavy

but your voice stays light

because you haven’t decided

what version of yourself

you’re trying to preserve.

Talking about him

like a song

you used to love

before you learned the lyrics.

It’s easy to stay

with someone who isn’t awful.

Harder to leave

when they’ve only ever

almost made you feel whole.

But here’s the thing about "almost"...

it’s the softest kind of anchor.

Keeps you close to shore, but

don’t forget you were built for oceans.

I know—
 everyone loves 
a love story that lasts.

But no one talks

about the ones that save you

by ending.

You don’t need to become

the caretaker of someone else’s potential.

Your light is not a learning center.

You’re allowed to be the main plot.

Not the subplot.

Not the lesson someone learns

too late.

This isn’t about blame.

Or bitterness.

Or burning bridges like

they were built to test your lungs.

It’s about asking the kind of questions

you’re scared of answering honestly.

Like—

If you met him today,

not with your history,

not with your hope,

but with your heart as it is now—

would you choose him?

And if not...
Would staying

be anything other than

a slow way of saying goodbye?

You’re not lost.

You’re just gathering the courage

to admit you’ve outgrown the map.

It’s not failure.

It’s evolution.
And yes, it will hurt.

It might feel like tearing a chapter

from a book you’ve memorized.

But it is better 
than reading the same paragraph

on a loop,
wondering why the story

never moves forward.

You deserve the kind of love

that doesn’t ask you

to shrink…

just to fit.

And maybe that means walking.

Maybe that means waiting.

But whatever you do,

promise me this:

Choose the kind of life

you’d be proud 
to write poems about.

Even if it means

writing the next one

alone.

When I’m feeling stuck, I often turn to my journals and notes for inspiration. For this poem, I found an entry about a red fox I recently saw hunting in a field. Once I started writing, the words flowed easily. However, I sometimes feel like the poem may come across as more contrived than it should. Still, it was a special moment, and I wanted to share it with you.

In the meadow, a fox leaps,

its coat flickering like fire caught in a breeze,

its paws brushing the earth, like thoughts—

quick, elusive, unburdened by memory.

The grasses bow beneath it

as if they, too, understand the grace of hunger,

a hunt wrapped in play

like a dancer lost in the rhythm of a song.

I watch from a distance,

considering its world is nothing but the present—

the pursuit, the leap,

the stillness of waiting.


No tomorrow to chase, no building of things

to weigh its heart down.


It lives as if the moment belongs to it

while I chase something 
that slips between my fingers

like smoke.

What would it be like

to hunger and yet not be consumed by it?

To stretch across the land with nothing but

the soft hum of being…


The fox turns,

its eyes bright and keen,

and in the sweep of its tail,

I see a life freer than my own—


If freedom is
a life without a list,

without the endless adding and subtracting

that fills my days.