Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category


A pantoum on the subject of living in Ymir

September 6, 2018

On the subject of a Pantoum

Sleepy quiet mountain town
Oh how you rage from time to time
Blowing off (it’s not just) steam
There are no trains here anymore

Oh how you rage from time to time
The winters long, there’s so much snow
There are no trains here anymore
We’re left to our own devices

The winters long, there’s so much snow
We pray for spring, in January
We’re left to our own devices
This is a top of the world tradeoff

We pray for spring, in January
It’s the same in other places
This is a top of the world tradeoff
It’s not better there, just different

It’s the same in other places
Still I sometimes miss the sea
It’s not better there, just different
Give it a year, I’ll be back

Still I sometimes miss the sea
Blowing off (it’s not just) steam
Give it a year, I’ll be back
Sleepy quiet mountain town


20+ texts, gaining intensity, written as haikus

September 4, 2018

I hope you don’t mind
I felt compelled to write you
Your words moved me so.

What a compliment
I find your voice beautiful
So much more than mine.

Oh honey. You’re just ..
It’s like you speak directly ..
You make my soul ache.

That recognition?
When two souls meet, and just know?
I’d given up hope.

Hope is for suckers.
I’ve been telling myself that
For so so long now.

Ha! Me too. The same.
I’ve become so embittered.
Tastes better than pain

You bleed beautifully.
The way your words soak the page,
I could drown, smiling.

Oh, you flatter me.
You write so exquisitely
Even here, in haiku.

Because I’m inspired.
Oh love, you really don’t know?
Before you, nonsense.

And now? Violence.
As though my bones cracked open
To make space for love.

That’s exactly it
As though everything brightened
I couldn’t go back

But what can we do?
Is forward an option here?
I mean, together.

We don’t get to choose.
Who we love, is who we love.
How we react, well…

It’s been far too long
Since I’ve felt scared of something,
Something I wanted

We’ve hidden ourselves
In plain sight, in normalcy
Passionless, afraid

So, let’s say we do
I wouldn’t know where to start
There are no breadcrumbs

I think it’s begun
Here, in this space between us
We’ll forge a new trail

But what will they say?
How will we explain ourselves
To husbands, children

If you love someone
You want them to be happy
They will understand

I hope that you’re right
If we decide to do this
There’s no going back

It’s going to be hard
But it feels like the right thing
Or is it just me?

No. It’s really not
It’s as though I’ve been asleep
Except you’re the dream

Well, perhaps it’s time
To stop sleepwalking through life
And wake the fuck up.

Is it so easy?
We just decide, and then act?
Is it so simple?

That’s love. On one side,
it really is that easy.
But it’s messy too.

Good thing we’re poets
Without messy emotions
What would inspire us?

Then let’s make a mess.
I can’t imagine saying
Anything but yes

My yes is tangled
Caught in a throat too long closed
But I need you. Yes. 


Demon eyes, rabbits and whiskey – 150 words in the style of Poe.

August 30, 2018

As I ponder where I should begin
Propped up by whiskey, or is it gin
I considered all the words that came before.

Inspired by darkness, dreaded, foul
Stories that called forth a howl,
A scream for mercy I would oft ignore.

I delighted in the midnight things,
Of demon eyes, the sound of wings,
Of monsters that would chill you to the core.

I brazenly fulfilled the need,
Nefarious thoughts that seemed to breed
Like rabbits, seemingly with no end in store.

Celebrated, I became
The whole world knew my lauded name
No equal could be found to match my lore.

And then one night the words weren’t there
My muse had gone, I know not where
I was cast adrift, upon a barren shore.

So when the devil came a-calling
You might think my choice appalling
That I should sell my soul, become a whore.

Quoth the raven….


Space, occupied.

July 16, 2018

Twisted and tied up,
a pretzel person flexible and fluid
Set free to swing in these ropes,
With a desire to push further than once thought possible.
We stretch and strain muscles,
expanding elasticity –
body and mind aligned in a mission of how to find ways
to occupy space and
make sensible use of time,
finite though it may seem
there’s still so much of it in a day.

Ample opportunities to play,
to have a say in the ways
we inhabit the hours,
even when giving over that schedule to someone else’s dream.
We can scheme to get away,
to escape
but perhaps the place to start,
an opening of heart
and seeing that this isn’t such a bad way
to spend the day.
And if it is so,
then go,
get out and find somewhere else to be,
keep digging at the foundations
of who you would like to see yourself as
until sanity reigns
and sense finds itself at home on the daily.

Because anything else just seems crazy.


The commodification of art, aka I made a thing you can buy!

May 25, 2018

Hello. It’s been a while since I posted here and the reason for that is because I’ve been writing a book. To be fair, the book was mostly already written, and it was just a matter of putting it together. But so I have, it has a cover and everything (THANK YOU AUTUMN!!!!) and there are just a few incidental details to take care of before it gets printed.

One of those details is, how many copies should I print? I was just going to pick an arbitrary number and print that many and if I sold them all, yay! And if not….. not as yay? And I’ll be honest, I was thinking it would be a very low number, because self-doubt and my ability to whisper from the back, ‘anyone wanna buy a book? No? Okay, cool. That’s what I thought.’ in an attempt to perpetuate the narrative my voice of unreason would have me believe is truth is a thing.

I sincerely believe that my voice of unreason played one of the false alarms in labyrinth and acted as an extra on some scooby doo episodes (you’ll never make it, turn back, certain doom awaits you, I’m sure you’d be much happier hiding under a blanket for the rest of your life wouldn’t you?) and obviously spends far too much time reliving those glory days within the confines of my head. Are your feet sore, voice of unreason? Because you’re stomping on my dreams.

But mum suggested I ask people, in advance of printing, if they want to buy one.

So. Here it is plainly.

I wrote a book.
It’s due to be released on or about the summer solstice. No later than that, but potentially sooner.
It’s a book of poetry called the Mechanics of Dreaming.
It has cover art designed and crafted most beautifully by my most talented friend Autumn Marie Toennis, for which I could not be more ecstatic.

If you want to order it, let me know so I can determine how many copies are reasonable.
It costs $15 if you get it from me in person.
It costs $20 if I mail it to you.
Email transfer works best.



Logophilic rumination

March 9, 2018

What is it to be wordsmith?
To use symbols to try and make sense?
Or dwell in the absurd, if one can find the right word
The task can sometimes seem immense.

And writing in rhyme can sometimes consume
Leaving oneself without much space or room
To explore beyond parameters set in their way
Though I could do couplets all goddamn day

But it’s more about expansion, growth and the new
Learning things daily is important too
Stuck in the same ruts
Can make one a bit nuts
It’s a good thing to eschew

Okay, enough of that for now. Here’s the thing about words. They are universal as math and music, though the language, the dialect shifts from place to place. Sometimes they take the form of pictures, gestures, body language, scent, a gaze, but these are all symbols used to communicate.

I read someone say once that they don’t believe in synonyms, which is a notion that appeals greatly to me. I love the idea of each word having its own perfect application. It’s the reason why I have my clock device set to 24 hour time, I like the idea that every hour gets its own number, rather than having to share. I know that not everyone shares my love of the written word (more than spoken, though a well spoken word can certainly have an affect…) and that’s okay. I don’t share an affection for some stuff other people might like. But the thing that words do, the place that they occupy in my world is so intrinsic. I love being in bookstores, in libraries, because I am surrounded by them. I feel sane, and safe.

The best way to get me is with words.
To find a word and present it, as a gift for my consumption.
You can be the best looking dude on the beach, but if you can’t speak like Shakespeare, it’s only going to get you so far. And I’m not talking thine and forsooth, it’s not about the era, the age of the language, even the poetry of it. It’s how they’re used, their depth and breadth. Their girth, if you will.

I want to be filled up by the words,
to feel stretched as my body,
my being,
my mind expands,
reconfigures itself to encompass the meaning,
the weight those words bring to me.

I want to feel the characters, those black etched indicators of intent.
I want to feel the loops and swirls
of words like loops and swirls
curl around my shoulders like a cape,
to feel twine wind itself around strands of hair
and braid itself there.
To know that anchor is keeping my feet steady
While feather is keeping them light.
That fire finds home in my smile
And laughter makes my eyes bright.
I want to encompass language
and become good friends with truth,
feel consternation in the furrow of brows
And yea, occasionally use even forsooth.

Whether words inspire revelation
Or struggle to describe the banal,
they’re imprinted within me, every last syllable.
I’m madly in love with them all.




March 4, 2018

So, I did the thing I do,
With my tendency to get intoxicated,
I got so drunk on you.
Until my vision blurs and all those traits that should make me crosseyed
get a pass.
I overlook, and then I overstep,
having lost my ability to think critically
And intrinsically know where my feet should go.
I forget to breathe,
breath held in anticipation of anything you might need,
hopeful that at some point the thing you need
will be me.
As though I’d like to be a place your pendulum can come to rest
Some kind of happy medium
Away from the frantic swing
Of push and pull.
A middle distance,
somewhere you might stare into,
A spot on the horizon, a future you might end up in
Without the consideration that it’s a place many look at
But not everyone sees.

And so I rally, I rail
I expose myself readily.
I want you to see me,
really see me,
But is that really possible?

I appear to the world as fragments,
lines of poetry tied with ribbons of red hair
and laughter
looping long legs that love to dance,
though sometimes they trip.
There is plenty of stumble and grumble in these pieces of me.
Much furrowed brow and what the fuck is happening now,
Mixed with general confusion and malaise for days.

And so which of me, do I desire you see?
Brave face facsimile presented in snapshots and single line status updates?
Broken bits of metaphor wrapped in an evolutionary fabric of time that’s softened my sharp edges to a dull roar?

A dreamer,
A schemer of plans to be better
If not more,
Certainly not less.
A girl who finds a way to fit comfortably in all of her places,
her nooks and crannies,
tumultuous spaces,
With a summer storm smile sincere without guile
Poetry that spills
from the curve of her lips
From the light in her eyes,
In the sway of her hips.
A wordsmith who knows sometimes,
just what to say
But forgets to get out
of her own way.

%d bloggers like this: