Of course they wake early with ease
Their minds accept consciousness
Without complaint for their eyes
Only half-perceive the world spread
Before them, their ears grow deaf
Beyond basic chatter unable to discern
Stirrings of leaves or the beat of an
Insect’s wing—they do not feel
The warmth of star light against
Their cheeks at night
Of course they awake early with ease
For they are never fully engaged. 

I wonder if places can have ghosts.
Sometimes as I start to blink and my eyes are half-lidded, in that brief squint spanning not even a second—I see impossible things. Large old homes, covered in viney growths, ancient trees in green glory reaching towards the sun, decaying barns that once might have been bustling with life—sights that disappear even as my brief shuttering form the world ceases. I often try to investigate what I glimpsed fleetingly; exploring with wide, unblinking eyes until I start to tear or on more bold days engaging my other senses and seeking answers on foot where the event occurred.
I have yet to re-sight any of those brief visions and I’m left wondering if places have ghosts the way some people do; spirits that linger long after the bodies have decayed away. 

We met on a park bench
She had claimed it first
Chin tucked to drawn up knees
Eyes half-shut against
Late autumn light
Sunset in her hair—
Met is such a pithy word
Three short letters
How could such brevity
Ever capture the enormity
Of serendipitous encounter
Met never properly portrayed
Twin shivers down spines
When blue eyes met hazel and
Strangers on a park bench
Became something else. 

You act as if walking away
In the middle of things
Will prevent the end
As if you could tear the last
Page from every story
Burning the words so the
Plot runs on but
You’ve only created a new
Finale
A jagged, uneasy drop-off
From which I plummet
Wishing for sweet conclusion
Instead of this endless fall. 

Why must you tell me good morning
When I wish to hear goodnight
Whispered from your lips into my skin?
Why must you awaken me so cruelly 
When I wish to remain asleep under
A tangle of blankets and legs?
Why must you tell me good morning
When it just disrupts the pretty dream I wove—
Of you
Of me. 

Anonymous asked: That's probably a strange question, but I'd like to know what you prefer doing: watching TV or reading? And what did you do to be able to your beautiful poems like that??

I prefer reading, but I am more easily drawn into TV or rather Netflix (haven’t had a tv/cable for the past 5 months or so) because it requires less attention.
I didn’t really do anything, but I know the more I write the closer I get to penning the things I really want. Everything I write is a shadow of what I think/feel—there’s always this gap between what you want and what you achieve—but I hope through continued practice that gap will narrow. 

I’m not a very good driver
I’m bad at using my mirrors
Just not in the habit of looking back
I’ve moved too often
Left too much behind
With wounds still open— 
A friend called me once
A few months after I had gone
I remembered our shared laughter
Tears and smiles, split equally
Yet her call was jarring
My response staccato sounds 
Her voice scratched my ears
Her past did not fit my present
Our friendship was a chapter closed.
I suppose I’m tell you this
As a warning
That once I walk away
There will be no looking back
No second chance. 

Here I lie
Reading the poems of my youth
Strange specters
I trapped in crowded journals
Between ink scratchings
Of dizzying patterns
They whisper in my ears
Asking how I could forget
Before slipping into
The past again
Journal closed
Tossed back into a drawer
A mean coffin
For words that floated
Like petals on Spring’s winds
Only to be crushed underfoot
As hollow as autumn leaves. 

You called me over to the window
To witness their attempted invasion
There will be a storm tonight
And chill tomorrow morning.
They always know and seek out
The warmth.
Your breath fogged the glass pane
Before you walked away
I stood there for almost an hour
Watching their tiny struggles
To escape what I could not sense
And wished I had the wisdom
Of a common stink bug. 

There should be a term
For that triangle of skirt
Revealed between coat openings
When you’re seated.
There should be a name
For the bird that lags behind
The rest of the flock
On cloud-filled fall days.
There should be a word
For the feeling in my stomach
As I wait on your front porch
For the door to open.
There should be something
That properly describes
The weight of your hand in mine.