“Not Another Poem!” (Sideways)

I can hear the people who have kept up to date with all my blogs so far saying this: “Not another poem!”. So in spite of the two and half of you out there that actually read this thing I am posting another poem. 

(“Where does the ‘half’ come from?” you ask? Well the other half of the siamese twin from Japan that follows my blog, hates my guts and said my blog was too “ostentatious” and continued to call me a “dilettante”. But her favorite movie was the Hunger Games and said that Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind was “stupid” so what’s her opinion worth anyway right? So I can only count the half that likes me) 

Anyways moving on . . .

This next poem is called ‘Sideways’ and it is inspired by true events. So enjoy!

Or complain either way, I win.


 Irreversible the thought of light

And lovers cloaked with aching skies

Oh staggered woes seep into the morning

The mourning

And taste the tragedy of wandered youth

As it slips into the gutter of memories stained

Oh passion move me into the cages of my blessed fears

Of my blessed wounds

And heaven’s eye dares turn it’s gaze from me

Abandoned in the ocean of dreams and waking eyes

Oh the horror as my soul washes up on a forgotten shore

A wretched world

In drowning did my heart experience salvation

And her lips the taste of my desperation my blindness

Oh beauty leave me with my own destruction

Leave me with tigers

And clothe me in robes of such pretty colors

Let your heart be my footstool and spring be my passion

Oh lovers of light will your fingers be my guide

Be my hopelessness

And watch the rising sun as it washes over a new day

In the face of the evers may you know the heart of pain

Oh villain of truth may you know the world walks

Walks sideways

“But what does it mean?”

That my friend is a question for another blog, but I will tell you the events that inspired this poem involved a goat, horse radish, an oboe player, and a St. Patrick’s Day worth forgetting.


In Memory of Martin Richard

Over a week ago a tragedy occurred at the Boston Marathon, claiming the lives of three individuals and wounding hundreds of others. Even though I have no personal ties to the people affected or to the city of Boston itself, I can’t help but feel saddened by what was lost on that day.

It’s always hard hearing about the passing of a child, but it’s even harder when it has to happen to needlessly for unjust reasons. I don’t know why the death of Martin Richard has affected me so much, but it has, and I can’t help but feel for his parents and his siblings and everyone else who was impacted by this young boy’s short life. 

So with all of them in mind (and everyone else who lost someone that day) I wrote this:

To the mother of Martin Richard. 

Know you are not alone in these tough times, my prayers and thoughts go out to you and your family.

For Boston

In the moments that follow

As you hold on to the weariness of hope

Dark and empty and fleeting

There is nothing left of who you were

Only the unanswered cries

As you reached for the hand that holds

For the hand that saves

But these breaths you now breathe

And these words you now recite

Are lost in the drowning

And the tears and the pain and the hopelessness of it all

All you once believed is now rubble

The ashes of yesterday’s flames

The agony of tomorrow’s sweet departure

As life floats away in every direction

Screaming and calling the vanity of it all

The wreckage and the heartache

But remember and cherish their smiles

And the love and the joy and the freedom you shared

For brothers fall

And the heart withers away in desolation

But there was a time you danced in the streets

There was a time you sang with unabashed freedom

Free from all terrors

Free from all thoughts of loneliness

And all the shadowy places

And there was a time you once believed in gardens

And all the flowers that grew and bloomed

For from your hands grew life and life endlessly

Forever one with the earth and the rain and the brightest light

From your heart poured a love

A love that inspired and gave

And from the dirt did the sweetest rose bud

Crimson bright and a hope that would ever linger

On the eyes of all you touched with your gentle hands

Darling know that what was lost may never be retrieved again

And the wounds the scars the bitterness

May last a lifetime

And the ever sting of the hours

And the minutes

And the seconds

May be with you to the end of your days

The longing you feel

For the moments that will never be

And the laughs you will never hear

May never cease

But as I write these words

And you feel what you feel

I urge you

Most tender gardener

That you remember your blessed flowers

Where you were one with God

And you held creation

As well as all living things in the palm of your hands

And you called them beautiful

As they swayed with the winds of liberty

As they brought forth the colors of the spring

A window into the wonders of heaven

Into the very heart of God


As you lie awake in darkness

As you recall the screams and the horrors

A never-ending battle for hope’s lost children


As you cling to the emptiness of all that remains

As you wait for the cold of winter

So you may grow numb and frozen to it all

Oh most broken soul


The ones we lost and the ones we loved

For a day will come when we are all together again

In a place where love is boundless and our sorrow is no more


That they smiled and recognized the joys of living

That they loved and knew that life was worth it

That they if they could would urge you to carry on

But most of all remember

You once grew a garden

Full of life and flowers and freedom

And you called them beautiful


I know a poem isn’t much but it’s all I can do. 

P.S. If by some chance this reaches the Richards family I just want to say I’m so sorry for your loss, I truly am, and that during this season of mourning I pray God’s peace and comfort in your lives.

And Blessed Creatures (Or: As I Watch Fantastic Mr. Fox)

So there was this guy downtown and he was all “bro?” and I was all “bro!”, but then we said “Hey? We’re not bros.” And we went our separate ways (totally took me two tries to write “separate” properly)  and never saw each other again. As insignificant as that event may have seemed it actually effected me in a deep and profound way and it inspired this poem . . . 

And Blessed Creatures

 Awakened in the hour of suffering

My torment the color of wandering

And her kisses the white dazzling curse of despair

Oh how I burn with the setting of the sun

The broken shall choir a song of yesterday

Their own hands shall wrap their own endings

And my eyes shall see the light of darkness

For in the heart of brokenness perfected; a glimmer

Illuminations of my soul serenaded from the abyss

Losing all sense of rationality I scream

Into that gaping hole of my own nothingness

In hopes that the monsters inside prove living

That they may comfort the very wounds they drew

Oh the noise of silence as it tears through the canvas of reality

And her voice the lover of my soul

For she knows all of me for she has molded me

Like daggers from the mouth of a garden

And tears pouring from the eyes of heaven’s grace

Should the waters of the ocean run dry

The heart of the morning to never rise

In the midst of heartache to count the stars

Oh my hope drunken with disease and littered with fear

And blessed creatures know that you are loved

For in the hour of suffering lies redemption

The face of beauty unveiled

For her eyes the dawning of the day

Her fragrance a winter rose out of time

Her heart a pearl in the waters of solitude

And her soul the very song of heaven

 and every moonlit night

So yeah don’t ask me how that encounter inspired this poem, because honestly I just don’t know, but for the sake of the introduction it did. 

The Other Side Of Your Humble Narrator (Or As I Like To Call It “The Thin”)

So it’s been about a month since I’ve last blogged and there is good reason for it (not really). I’ve been super busy (LIAR!) organizing charity events (dropping pennines in those World Vision boxes does not count as “organizing charity events”, jerk!), volunteering at soup kitchens (oh please!), and celebrating life and it’s many wonders (if you call lying in bed till 3 pm with a tub of melted ice cream a celebration, then sure). But now I’ve decided to come away from it all and start this ole’ thing up again . . .

So moving on . . . 

I’ve been thinking of exposing myself a bit more than I am accustomed to, and a way that I’ve decided to do this was by posting some of my poetry on the notorious inter-webs. In hopes that others would be able to read and enjoy. So without further adieu I present to you all a piece I like to call the Thin (and don’t mind the length).

The Thin

 Growing up you hear words like “volatile” and “inconsistent”

While drawing pictures of beautiful women

You make motions to the sky screaming ‘Why can’t it be me?’

‘Why must I always be the one in silence?’

The one portrayed lifeless

As the speck in a horizontal world

Succumbed to the luxury of breathing

Face to face with the concept of mediocrity do you run?

Do you hide behind the mask of comfort?

Among the illusions of happiness and self-doubt

You paint your sorrows with cream-colored walls

Dress your wounds with grace and forgiveness

But still you dare cry ‘More’?

You dare say, ’I have not enough’?

You call the name of God in hopes of enlightenment of retribution

As if your life was an empty room

Needing to be filled with a deeper understanding a deeper love

From things you can’t put a name or a face

Shadows phantoms have become your dwelling place

And the only comfort is a memory traded for a dream

Dreams to one day call ‘Love?’ and get a response

But holding on only lasts for so long

Fingers numb, as do hearts

Feeling becomes but a word

The hands of time do not heal but take

They shape creativity to normality and call it “beautiful”


But as you hold the rotting hands of reality

You will see no beauty only decay

You will hear no songs of love

For love is a concept only God can comprehend

And no man dare say ‘Love’ from a position of sincerity

For no man can pay that cost

The cost to love is great but to receive it is nothing

Yes reality is volatile and inconsistent

Wisdom can be uttered from the mouth of a fool

But reality is not all that is real

And yes beauty can be captured in a brush stroke

Masterpieces can be created from immoral hearts

But beauty is not all that is beautiful

There is more to life than words and pretty faces

There is more to death than ‘What is left behind?’ or ‘What comes next?’

For a man is not measured by riches

A man is not witnessed by what he accomplished

Rather he is measured by the standards of pure love

He is witnessed by the splendor of immeasurable grace

In a world where being seen is everything

In a time when being beautiful means nothing

What else is there to hold onto?

Where else do you find peace?

There is nothing and there is no where

Only the thin

Comment on what you think of it, steal it from me if you want and pass it on as your own, do what ever you want I don’t care . . . just kidding. Hands off the merchandise playa!