Monday, October 16, 2017



People tell me ghosts aren’t real,
They only exist in my head.
The things I see, the things I feel
Aren’t the voices of the dead.
It must be my imagination
Because after we all die,
We go to heaven, hell, or other
But we don’t leave anything behind.
Well, I don’t know if that’s true or not
But let me tell you what I think,
Maybe ghosts are people left behind,
Or an image, a glitch, when we blink.
Or maybe they are something else
Because I promise ghosts are real,
They exist in our minds, things left behind
They are something we don’t want to feel.
Ghosts are what we make them,
They are visions we create,
Of lives left behind or of things that remind
Us of lives that we might predate.
But I digress, let me state my point,
We all create our ghosts,
They are the things from our own past
The things that bother us most.
Who knows what ghosts really are
But they follow us around,
They are memories we leave behind,
The ones we try to put to ground.
Thoughts, that much like ghosts,
Come back from beyond the grave,
History from long ago,
Things better left behind, or erased. 

Happy Halloween

Creativity Faucet

Creativity Faucet

Why is creativity
So hard to come across?
Why does it just come and go?
For me it’s a major loss.

Come back my creativity!
Don't abandon me this way!
Come back! Come back! Where is it at?
I don’t know what to say!
What words do I put on paper?
Without it, I don’t know.
When it’s gone, lost for far too long,
The words, they just don’t flow.

But wait! I’ve suddenly found it!
The words are coming to me,
They are finding their way onto the page
I think I just might see,
For creativity is like a faucet
And when you turn it on,
It flows and goes and no one knows
Just when it will come to a stop.

But as soon as you close the faucet
That handle starts to rust.
It gets harder and harder just to turn
So, in truth you really must
Constantly let the water flow
So the handle will always turn,
Because creativity is hard to find
And it’s something you must earn. 

Missing Page

Missing Page

For every single missing page
There’s a story to be told.
What happened there, where did it go?
I’m afraid you may never know.
Missing words don’t leave any evidence,
Only the page leaves part of itself.
A tatter, a rip, some missing paper;
The only one who knows is myself,
And what was there is a mystery
That I’ll leave for you to guess at.
Good luck, I’m afraid you’ll never know
For these pages are my own format. 

Quiet Snow

Quiet Snow

So slow, so silent
          Snow falls.
Rain creates a loud
          Tink, tink,
As it collides with the ground.
Snow falls
          It lands,
Leaving behind
Only a soft, white carpet
As evidence.
For how silently it makes an entrance
          Snow stays
Lasting days,
While rain makes a grand entrance
Only to dry up,
Too soon after its arrival.
Pure Snow,
Silent Snow,
Beautiful Snow,
Leaves behind a part of itself,
          So silently,
          Quiet Snow.

Thursday, January 5, 2017

Where I'm Meant to Be

Where I’m Meant to Be

Have you ever had that Feeling
That this is—Where I’m meant to be?
Before was all Wrong—
It’s been so Long
Since I’ve truly been just me?

Then something goes right and you realize
That though the Road was Long—
This is—Where you belong
And nothing else could truly be—
But to have got there—you must have been Strong.

However many wrong turns— you felt you took,
How hard it was to get—Through—
You kept pushing forward—
You kept moving toward—
A path you thought you’d misconstrued.

But then you tripped and stumbled,
You fell onto the right—Path.
You’re filled with Light—that chases away the Night—
And for the first time in a while,
With joy—you can finally Laugh

Christmas Love

Christmas Love

Christmas time is the time of year
To hold our loved ones close,
To celebrate all the joy we’ve shared
And remember all we’ve lost.
When the year is at its darkest
And all seems bleak and cold
We warm up by the fire
In a ceremony, most old.
This is the time we remember the year
And the pain and joy it brought,
So we can push aside the sadness
And all the horror it wrought.
Instead we deal in joy and love
To bring family and friends together.
Whether religious or not, we all share our lot
Because love will last forever.

R.I.P. Katherine Johnson and Toya

The Wall

The Wall

We surround ourselves with sturdy walls
Built tough to keep us safe,
To block out the harshest words,
The anger, the pain, the hate.
The things we do not wish to face
Stay outside our thick stone walls,
But there’s something we can’t see
That even if it’s oh so small
The words that hurt begin to chip
And dig the wall away,
Creating holes that show our souls—
The pain we can’t keep at bay.
Those words are like a little rock
That chip away the stone,
And words do hurt, just like stones and sticks
They just might break the bone.
That little stone digs at the wall
And though it takes some time,
A misplaced word that starts to hurt
Causes our souls to intertwine,
And breaks away the sturdy wall
Making the hole grow ever deeper
Until eventually the words break through
And like the nefarious reaper
Those words cut at us, inflicting wounds
Whether they were meant to hurt or not—
Those holes don’t close, they show our souls
And expose ourselves to rot.
Most often many create the holes
But sometimes it’s only one
That says the things that hurt us most
And chase away the sun.
Every wall has chips and cracks
That we try to fill with putty,
But it’s never as strong as the original
Thus leaving our walls less sturdy.
So careful with the words you say
No matter what you think,
Because you’ll find a crack left in the stone
And make the hole ever deeper.