Category: Poetry

Within the hours and the shape Cape Canaveral. Within the tone of Thomas Barron’s voice. Within the picture’s faceless.

(I wrote this at seventeen) forced rhymes and chain link fences. Statues for what we believe in. Manicured lawns and leathered faces, callous flowers in winter’s dead hands. Parking garages with night faces and preachers giving reasons for living. Graveyards beside elementary schools in small towns, like baseball diamonds with Easter Island Faces. Fireflies with…

From Kansas the winter starts along a charade of… how long before the turnstile. I remember the turnstile. Before Christmas. Before the sound of imaginary lovers and hot chocolate and skis. I remember the lawn in summer. I remember the cicadas. How can you write a poem, upon promised prayers and forgotten anniversaries. Upon of…

My Last Duchess was my sister’s favorite poem and My Boyfriends Back was her favorite rock song of the sixties. And yes she was smart enough to find humor in that. I was smart enough to realize it. I put together my past here. I have not so much a desire to relive the past…

(Imagine a child laughing and listening) I once had a friend named Mr. Roosevelt who felt the sky crumble beneath his feet. A pleasant man. I have lived he would say three thousand lives and a three thousand lives I have once lived. But he would say each of them lasted but just one day.…

Good friends help you move furniture.

A good friend will bail you out. A Best Friend will be sitting beside you asking you… how do we get out of this? If I only knew what I was referring to. O’. I do know where I was going though. Perhaps what we need as much as a flower is a tear.

There is something to be said for flowers, everyday. Do I see past the broken stories of the past? There is something to be said for flowers. Should you surround yourself? Is it a misrepresentation of life. No. It isn’t. You should surround yourself with flowers. These are flowers here.