The Rough

I never sit down with a plan

I simply shake my head

Whatsoever issues forth, sent to page from pen

Pensive thoughts aren’t worth a lot

I like mine unrefined

The beauty of a diamond before it’s cut to size

Moments fly by me en masse

No time to overthink them, for others will slip past

I spend my time in the rough, surrounded by raw beauty

The jeweler wastes their time, ever faceting and smoothing


Zirconium Man

I’m a man that’s beautiful in the way of zirconium
Not nearly so charming when you look closer…

Intentions just as pure
Yet not what you expected
My imperfect allure is often rejected
Nothing cures the way of this stone
Flaws more apparent the more that you know
Like flowers of blue that poison the mind
I’m best left alone in the dirt with my kind

– Zirconium Man

The Art of Love and Malice

To me, for mankind there are few greater creations

The way we can take words and artfully arrange them

Lay them out upon a page

Paint a mental picture that could rival a Monet

Relate a deeper meaning

Or merely draw the eye along by routes, obscure and scenic

Some fiendish, as I and Baudelaire

Looking through the cracks for beauty in despair

Often careless and quite callous

The sacred art of poetry is one of love and malice

Lifeless Boughs

The sky above is alive with flying clouds of color

Some might say I’m biased, but Autumn bests the Summer

Nothing holds a greater beauty

The poetry and despair of slumber’s colors blooming

Soon will come the cold

For now I’m basking in the warmth of orange, red, yellow bold

Truth told, we’re much like kin

Standing out the most before the fall takes us again

We then must start anew

Budding even after spending most the year subdued

Muted grays and tired browns

Waiting for the warmth to come and bring life to the boughs

The Wind

Still sky, wrath suspended

The calm before the storm

Something unstoppable

Clouds taking form

Funneling to Earth

Stemming massive flows

Progression so deadly

In circles, they do go

Those who meet them, perish

Those who see them, hide

Never will they say again, “It’s just the wind, dear child”

Willing Prey, Accidental Predator

A smile

Those eyes

A graceful tongue

Unconsciously, a web was spun

Stunned by beauty you exude

High cardiac magnitude

My crude heart was badly shaken

Though I doubt you meant to take it

Mistakenly, you captured me

Lovely spider, lowly flea

You can’t release me from your web

Eat me or leave me for dead

Suspended, hanging off every word

Snared by silken letters

No longer hidden in the fur

An unwanted passenger, praying for life or death in open air

The Chronologist

One day soon, I’ll bind a book

Leather, cloth, sweat and work

Circulation, unintended

There’s but one place I’d ever send it

Straight to the heart of the inspiration

On such beauty, no words are wasted

Chasing her to share my thoughts

A foolish action that serves me not

So, I’ll stop and send just this

Titled “Love’s Chronologist”


I’m just like an ocean

Coming, going as I please

Often quite predictable

Like any open sea

Not to say I’m boring

There are storms and deadly swells

Days of placid beauty

Like a drifting, timeless spell

Hell hath no fury like the mistress of the tide

Holding back the abyss

So many hundred fathoms try

Ache to swallow the world

Become one with beauty

Earth aqua-pearl

There’s nothing new to sayIt’s all been said

There’s nothing new to say

It’s all been said before

You read my heart’s desire

Not knowing who it’s for

Scores of single letters

Strung up like lights

Bright against the darkness

Vague until tonight

I should have told you sooner

I could never see a chance

You’ve always been the muse

Guiding ink from pen in hand