Life Before Death

I ask the crow to sing a happy tune
and flash it’s pretty feathers;
To fly in the aroma of the flowers
watered and tended to by us.
I ask the crow to sing a joyful song
despite it’s cries;
To disregard his image of sorrow,
and instead rejoice in the garden
we rise in the middle of the desert.
I tell the crow of life’s limits
and ask him to celebrate with us
the promise of tomorrow
in the color
of all we’ve grown tall;
To relax
in a beauty too great to overlook.

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Lessons Learned in Dreaming

My weary eyes fell closed
and all my senses
sprung to life in the midnight
of two bodies
dancing in the dark.

They lay in silence
catching breaths
and hushing heartbeats,
collecting their minds
with nets
and tying the thoughts together
with the strings.

This is the feeling
a bird knows,
wings spread and wind
ruffling its feathers.

Their fingers lace together
and the canary sings to the eagle;

“You have taught me more-
so much more
than I could have learned
through observation.
You have taught me
the best way to learn
is to experience;
to do.
And I thank you for that.”

The eagle gifted the canary
with a knowledge
only graying blue birds
tend to know;

How to live life free
and without guilt.

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Screaming Underwater

I shove my head underwater,
trying to diminish the heat,
seeping its way into my brain.
It bleeds into my thoughts
and sets fire to my veins,
burning my limbs from within.
I scream until my lungs break,
my anger rising in the bubbles
breaking the surface,
and giving voice to my frustrations.

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Time Travels

You were a grandfather clock,
holding time in your hands,
winding the minutes to the hour,
and slowing the pace in which they ticked.
You placed the numbers in my palms,
told me to choose the order in which they played,
and introduced me to the idea
that we control the way each moment passes.

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

II. Greenhouse

*This poem is a part II, to a series I have started for events in my life, called To Plant the Memories Like Seeds. Check out the first part, Chain-Link Fence
Check out the third part Wildflower (I’m Sorry)

I remember her the way you
remember a cut; within the
scars it left behind.

She was a gardener; carrying
beauty in her pocket, and
teaching me how to tend the

She showed me the ways a
rose’s thorns could paint its
petals red.

She became my mentor,
teaching me how to hate the
size of my leaves and dig for
the veins.

I remembered her the day
she quit, the day she taught
me not all addictions are
substance abuse.

I grasped the independence,
but carried her lessons with

The day the storm rolled in,
she’d evacuated long before,
but I remembered the way
she handed me the keys to
the shed.

The way the sharpness of
the tools glistened in the
light of the open doors.

The rain rubbed against the
aftermath, and the lightning
scratched at my flesh.

The wind screamed in my ears-

“This is what you wanted.”

The day the storm rolled in,
the thunder left threats in
the holes the tornadoes
created in my walls.

I remembered her in the
broken greenhouse, and
the way she opened my
eyes to the damage cutting
one stem could do to the
whole flower bed.

And I remember her every
time I paint my rose petals
with my thorns, and dig for
the veins.

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

A Single Breath

It’s amazing how quickly things can change.
How it only takes a few seconds, a single
moment to topple the cards you stacked.

I was fourteen, my life spinning on a merry-
go-round when I fell off and rolled face first
into the puddle I’m still drowning in.

I was thirteen when it started spinning, when
the hands gripped cold metal and a body threw
it’s weight counterclockwise.

I was fifteen when I started replacing my card
castle, and sixteen when the winds came, a
hurricane bringing the floods that sink the cards
I’m dealt.

Nearly seventeen, the water still rises while my
life jacket fails to float in the space above the

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

A Letter to Myself

One day, you’ll come across something so beautiful,
your lungs will forget it needs oxygen for you because
they want to gift it to this life.

One day, you’ll hold the hand of a love
while looking into the eyes of a fragile
being, and you will finally understand
the importance of being strong for those
who are delicate.

One day, you’ll live a life to be proud of,
not one you want to throw away like
last weeks leftovers.

One day, you’ll smile because you’ll have
purpose, all you have to do is allow the
time to get there.