Poetry · Writing


My heart was your shield

the night the pitch forks came.

Into the steamy fields under

blood moon. Their screams

carried deep into the night.

Anger and fear clouded

their humanity, telling them

to burn.

Burn, burn until everything

is blood red. No devil can save you.

Run through the fields

my heart will be your shield

so you can fight for another.

Poetry · Writing


Pinwheeling through it. 

Gentle breeze blows the house

to pieces. Your labeled

The Big Bad Wolf. 

Pieces will lie on the

cold Earth for an

unmeasurable amount of time

before it heals. 
The contractor never

makes eye contact. Shamefully

assembling the remains as

a toddler builds a playhouse.

The pinwheel spins

until the next great gust.

Poetry · Writing

Impersonating Gods

He once told me the sky was green.

I never questioned him and

without a grain of doubt

behind his trusting grin

I never thought to.

He once told me the world was flat.

Bare footed walks along the

ocean side watching the waves

peak across my toes

before it drowned over the edge.

He once said I would die alone.

Clenching knee’s

drifting into an ocean of sorrow

waiting for the sky

to revert to ocean blue.

Poetry · Writing

Breaking Ship

We couldn’t make it across the canal.

Waves tossed our tiny canoe before,

before sinking.

The ocean wasn’t always the terror.

The cool calmness sheltred our

boat along the icy tides.

Similiar to before we got on.

The dry lands fuled our

adventure, we didn’t know

it would be our last.

Poetry · Writing


Stampede the living and

forgive the dead.

The brilliant came up short

in a foot race for discovery.

We failed as a team.

Pacing a baton one by one

even though the end was near.

I’ll never forget that race.

We came to destroy each other

and left hand in hand.

Poetry · Writing

Sacred Ash

If I take away anything,

I can speak from the heart.

Watched it burn down to the end

and let the hose fall.

They said no one was left inside.

Truly left burned

we said quiet prayers

until the end was the beginning.

We never had a chance to clear the air,

before beating flames

and sacred ashes.

Poetry · Writing


Aim to stick the landing

we never focused on the take off

your form was left wanting

the stairs you took we’re shaped by the greats before you.

Did you send a prayer to the god’s?

The old and the new.

They warranted your return

and you didn’t listen.