THE LIGHT

My best work is saved for Literary Journal submissions, but please enjoy my archive of secondary poems that never quite made the cut.

2025

...to be written

The words will come to me soon.

2024

Scarlet Sacrifice

Lonesome leaf.

How scary it must be

to jump first.

But fear not, dauntless red one,

for the martyr is always remembered.

Wind Catcher (19th Place)

Curious fledgling,

leaping from that ledge—airborne,

over land unseen.

Once Upon A Star-Filled Sky

Dedicated to my best friends

on their 15th Wedding Anniversary.

Congratulations Daniel and Christina

Twas a long time ago,

longer than it seems,

in a place

between sleep and awake,

when I happened upon you,

and took seat beside you

in a dream while I was adrift.

And much like today

it was just us,

drifting and laughing,

gazing at a pixie-dust sky.

And even then

it was plain to see

that our love was written

in the cosmos

long before we met

and will remain

as stardust

long after we part.

the astronaut

His eyes

explored the void

frantically,

and his hands clawed at the emptiness

for meaning and purpose,

yet he grasped nothing.

he catapulted

through the universe

at the speed of light

without coordinates

to a destination unknown.

He was a castaway

naked and afraid.

time was his space ship.

Let's Kill The Dinosaurs

I feel you approaching.

Your vibration sends shockwaves

through the universe.

Icey shards of shattered men

are diminished to dust in your wake,

and without a second glance,

they slip off your shoulders,

never to be remembered,

forever floating in a vat of darkness.

Every inch closer

threatens my atmosphere,

to breach my way of life.

My instinct is to brace for impact,

go fetal

hope for a near miss,

yet my pulse leaps feverishly through my skin,

and my sky’s partway

as I invite a collision course

for lust and desire,

and certain death.

You’re inescapable.

and I realize it’ll soon start again,

the birth of another decade

the scorching of my entire surface

and the draining of every last resource,

just like last time.

Even if it kills me,

I yearn for one more moment with you.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So, let’s kill the dinosaurs.

Perpetual Carpool

The radio

plays the same song as yesterday,

as the day before,

and the day before that.

I’m waterboarded by a tsunami

over and over

because I refuse to forget

what you sound like,

and I’ll continue to suffocate without you,

and I’ll continue to listen to my favorite song.

the Eastern Star

The eastern star rises

and kisses the unattainable foothills.

A spring flower breaches permafrost

and defies its winter coffin.

A butterfly straddles a tulip

and its color grows more vibrant.

A new day,

A new growth,

A new beauty.

and A new you.

Pyromaniacs

Tantric coil—friction.

Ember glow. Thermal ignition.

Tameless firestorm.

2023

*Morning Commute (Winner)

The man sleeping

upon the bus stop bench

blocking your view

of this month’s

burger ad,

paid for by the fast-food joint

around the corner,

is hungry,

and his name is Bert Huggins,

if you cared to know.

The Stroll

He rose

from his bed

against

the doctor’s orders,

and took a walker-abetted trudge

down the nursing home hallway,

and down memory lane.

He’d find her

if it was the last thing

he’d do,

and if it killed him

it’d all be worth it.

and he did,

and it did,

and it was,

and in each other’s arms,

they were.

The Highwire Prince

I rose first

like most mornings,

navigating space and time

and balancing the fragile tight-rope

of two dimensions.

Caught between

fears and dreams

laying hidden within the creases of her mind,

I rolled my heels

onto my toes

and placed dampened footfalls

that invoked

the envy of a dropped pin.

Dark collided with light,

and I transformed into

a slow and steady hunter

camouflaged by apparitions

made of car lamps and taillights

while stalking my undergarments like prey,

never wavering from the stoic gaze

I held on my sleeping beauty.

It’s in these moments

between her rises and falls

when even my heart stops beating

to match her rhythm

and with patience,

I await her release

so, I can move and breathe

once more.

She always asks

why I never wake her,

and the simple answer is

I want her to remain

in that castle in the sky

for as long as possible,

to live out her dreams

right now

because there’s no promise

of a tomorrow,

and no guarantee

that any of my made-up imaginings

she willingly believes in

will ever come true.

So, sadly today

there will be no kiss

for a slumbering princess

to avoid waking her

from those faraway places

she returns each night to visit,

but there will be a storybook ending

waiting on a hotplate

next to a pile of bacon,

and a pint of syrup.

And only when she beckons

for her bearded nobleman

eagerly awaiting

for her hair to be let down

and his name to be summoned

will it be delivered

because a Prince’s only job in fairytales

is to rescue

and sweep her off her feet,

No matter which realm

she chooses to be.

Swimming Lessons

Money doesn’t make the man,

his word does,

but loose lips grow quiet

in dark alleys,

not Nasdaq floors,

so, any decent man

would be detoured

from doing the right thing,

especially one with

mouths to fill

and a roof to keep.

I hang my head low

watching the ground move

beneath me as I walk home.

My pride and ego

both cleansed by the

emptiness of the morning,

but it’s within the shadows that I blend in.

I wear the black for them.

Upon my broken back

they eat their breakfast,

and wash it all down

with discounted milk

and cartoon giggles,

using my stained shirts as napkins.

I don’t care

because as long as they’re full,

they sleep well,

and make it to the bus on time

I am doing something right.

God knows there Ain’t much

I’ve gotten right,

but I’ve never begged, borrowed,

or cheated to survive.

Some do

and some win,

but most pay the price.

Living among the filth

keeps you true,

and most of the time

the truth is all you have—

And being quiet

adds another box on that calendar

to be Ex’d

filling you with the hope

that you’d be lucky enough

to find a way out

before it’s too late.

Even if all the riches

filled every ocean,

today’s children would drown

trying to swim them

because uncharted waters

and false horizons lead to certain death—

But wearing a suit of black

can be a heavy burden

dragging you under just the same,

especially as the riptide of the world

pulls at you.

So, why teach them how to wear that heavy suit?

Because I want them to struggle enough

to learn how to swim upstream,

and be learned enough to know

when the water’s too rapid

to get out.

I want them to hold their breaths knowing

that air will eventually come back

and they will resurface

because every night

they watched their dad disappear into the shadows

always bringing the sunrise back with him.

I want them to think

if he did it

then they could too.

Post-It-Note for the Queen

I love you,

more than all the words that I could ever arrange when describing my feelings for you.

I write you,

with my own red ink, into a boundless book, where every page is a new canvas for an unexplored memory that is soon to be written, and my heart is your bookmark.

I offer you,

a speechless love, where every glance I steal, is a syllable with a poetic intonation, and every touch we make is a sentence that runs on infinitely.

I whisper,

every open wound, my biggest fears, and reveal my deepest truths into your precious ear while you are sound asleep, living in another world, where I hope, you don't forget to wear your crown.

The Coal Miner

At first you were reluctant.

In fact, you turned away.

Perhaps it was too dark inside,

or too dangerous for you to stay.

But your urge to find a diamond,

among the heaping piles of coal,

overcame your impulses to avert the dangers,

and so, you entered bravely with a pick axe, and a hoe.

You dug it deep, and trenched a path,

to the center of that pitch-black mine.

And when you finally struck a bleeding heart,

You had met me for the first time.

“Hello.” I echoed out of the darkness to you,

reaching out my trembling hand.

You said “Hey” in return, and introduced yourself.

Now our conversation has yet to end.

You shined my heart, polished my soul,

and smoothed down the jagged bits of remaining coal.

You formed and formed me, then sharpened my lines,

and turned me from a crumbled stone, into one that brilliantly shines.

Now, I grab my tools with no exit or return time,

to step deep inside your shaft-tunneled mine.

I begin to dig down, blazing inside you a new ditch,

With no intentions to stop, until I too, strike it rich.

A Mother's Sunrise

First light

over mountains.

The brightest blue eyes

you’ll ever see.

My sunrise peeks

above the footboard horizon.

—My baby.

Happy Mother’s Day

for me.

My Home Is You

Despite the fiercest wind

whipping at our walls,

or a raging fire

blazing up the yard,

Enwrapping myself with your ocean eyes

will always protect me.

Mushroom clouds could fill the skies

atoms to dust, a certain demise,

or a seething mob

with pitchforks and cries

may beat upon our door,

but it’s surrendering myself within your arms

that forever shelters me.

The entire world

could crumble down

or the perfect storm

may turn around,

should time’s keeper

come to clock me out

a wayfarer of the cosmos I’d become,

but no matter where my feet may roam

I know I’d never be without a home

—because my HOME is always in you—

Baptism by Rain

Just like swimming in the pouring rain,

your presence alone tingles my skin,

as millions of your tiny oceans splash against me all at once.

With goosebumps of yearning reaching through my skin-wrapped soul,

I am drenched in your symphony of adoration,

and bathed in your showers of rehabilitation,

left drowned in your puddles of commiseration.

My sins now, are washed away in your purity,

and as I rise from the depths of what was once a dried-up lake, now refilled.

I emerge a better man.

Falcon On Fire

Out of the desecrated rubble,

through the impenetrable smoke,

emerges a figure.

A fiery trail of ash and ember cascade in its wake,

and a perfect sun burns at its core.

A flaming light, a brilliant beacon.

The Phoenix.

A raptor with unmistakable talons,

grabbing its prey with deliberacy and precision.

Don’t be so quick to set aside the feat,

because it wasn’t always this way.

It had to die to get here.

An entire forest burnt to the ground to nourish it.

A path of bodies lay crumbled in its aftermath.

And it wears their skin to commemorate the suffering,

never forgetting how it was created,

never to forget the agony it sustained,

and never forgetting what it felt like to burn alive.

Straggling Lyricist

Let your words be the wind that lifts you,

and may the wind become a jet stream that

blows you fiercely around the globe.

Find solace and shelter within the microphone.

Words become a wind

A dusty drifter’s jet stream

Gusting befalls him

*Till the Gallows Do We Part (Winner)

No promise can be forcibly broken

if we insist that nothing comes between us.

This cloth sundering our lips

is merely the grand drape of our affaire—

Never their barricade to our love.

Our passion is an insurgency that will blaze on post-mortem despite it.

A linen kiss;

Our crowning embrace until we head for the gallows.

The audience clusters outside to behold the finale of our melodrama,

and I yearn for your naked touch once more.

We squeeze with the thrills of memories afar.

and soon memories afar are all we’ll be, but not without this last mutiny.

Our love is why we’re here

so, it’s only fitting that this is how we’ll part.

If only we had run away instead,

we could’ve left our decrepit marriages dust-bound—

Never stealing from our spouses their lives,

but we wanted each other so badly, we consummated our new life with murder.

As the noose is placed around our necks, our future is revealed;

It used to be a cabin in the woods—creek side in autumn.

A rope swing hung from a front yard maple; A few leaves fluttered down.

Our kids chased the dog in the yard or she was chasing them. We never knew.

but now this Townsquare has become our château des bois and our maple has been cut and

formed into a stage with a drop floor and a single rafter.

I'm glad the rope still swings freely.

Lines of blood form our signatures on death certificates,

as the last words from condemned lovers are confessed.

“Our love was a sin coiled around our hearts,

and we were unconscious of it until we’d became its servant.

We stand proud of our reasons, but not our actions.

Our admission heeds a warning to any lovers too weak to see it through, like us.

I did the deed myself and she drew up the plans. For our love, for everything that we ever felt,

and for the possibility of true happiness we would do it all over again, tomorrow.”

The floor opens…

...Catherine Miller and George Smith parted ways at the Gallows on Feb 3rd, 1881. It was 11:20 am.

The clouds shed not one tear for them. It was a relatively sunny day.

the Painting:

The Lovers (Les Amants) by René Magritte

1928. Oil on canvas, 21 3/8 x 28 7/8" (54 x 73.4 cm)

Where the Sun Doesn't Shine

Bury me

where the sun doesn’t shine

and lay me to rest

once more

under the old oak tree,

where we once

held hands,

where I

stole my first kiss,

and

where you

loved to read

to my illiterate brain

even though it never

made me smarter—

I always daydreamed

to your voice.

I always fell asleep

to your words.

I’ll gladly take root

in that tree,

for it holds

the only memories

of my life

that matter

and probably

the memories of

a few men before me.

It’ll just be me

and a couple of guys

reliving our best times

falling in love

forever.

To Be Heard

The man without a voice, obtains one.

A life full of deaf ears,

never being listened to.

He lived on the fringe;

Out of their trash-bins,

feeding off the scraps they shoved into him,

like he was a baby bird,

yet he was hungry,

and ate any piece of meat,

regardless of its authenticity,

He was either stuck in the nest until he died,

or forced to jump out.

A spiral straight to the bottom,

he fell flat, but now had a story to tell.

His written words carefully chosen,

inked into a font that sets the mood,

and placed on uniformed paper as if he’s in control,

as if there is order in his life,

as if he is preparing his last will and testament.

The importance of detail is crucial, this may be his only shot.

He layers his compilation like a baker building a cake.

A life full of stories, Oven set to 450.

A speechless assault on society,

An examination of the human soul,

an autopsy of himself.

An opportunity to entertain, to uplift,

to speak from the heart without ever having to say a word in front of a crowd,

because people scare him;

Trust doesn’t come easy anymore.

He unclogs his arteries,

filled of repressed suffering and inflicted pain,

then soaks the pages with new blood.

Sealed and bound into a time-capsule,

he then shares with the world.

He gains a watchful eye, attached to a mind, attached to thoughts,

and can now send sparks of inspiration directly into their souls.

An electric connection of black and white;

A static symphony of contrast.

The simplicity in his words forms a complex message,

asking questions and demanding answers.

and a man who never had a voice,

now sends shockwaves around the world.

to be heard.

the Eviction

Too many times

you’ve needed a place to crash,

and I said no,

but caved despite it.

This toxic love

is our perpetual demise,

our Tango de la Muerte.

Once inside

you smash up my walls

slash the chaise and pillows

then refuse to leave when asked.

Never again!

Your memories are on the lawn,

along with all the years of your shit.

And you're no longer my tenant

Effective Immediately.

The Reader

Use your blade shaped with vowels,

to cut me deep through the vein.

Hang your noose made of verbs,

So, I may cross over that plane.

Kill me with your story,

Then bring me to life with your words.

Stitch me back up,

only to tear me apart from the herd.

Let me read one more saga,

and begin where I did start.

Let me feel what you felt,

When you wrote the pages from your heart.

Reclaimed

I am not what you label me to be,

though you feel compelled to tell me what you think—

that I’m a scumbag,

a lost soul, useless to society.

But your words don’t define me.

I’ve already heard them—

from my family,

from myself,

from strangers on the street.

And at the end of the day,

only I determine how my name will read.

---

It’s all too easy to say, “Just leave,”

but have you ever felt love’s iron fist strike your cheek?

Have you put in the time to heal your wounds,

to stay loyal to the one you vowed you’d never leave?

It’s harder than you think,

especially when you’re clinging to the hope that things will change.

It’s much harder than you think.

“Why won’t she just leave?

She’s gutless. She must want it…She’s obviously weak.”

But I won’t let those words define me,

because I carry more strength behind my swollen eye

than you produce in fifty-two weeks.

And soon, I will break free.

---

My armor’s not here by choice—contrary to your belief.

It’s not a product of laziness,

lack of drive,

or absence of accountability.

You chisel my exterior with your daggers and blades,

your words seek to carve “perfection” out of me.

My armor exists, in part, as a response to your misguided deeds—

a reflexive shield against the poison you release.

My armor protects me.

Your words don’t define me.

I am more than skin deep.

My entire body is molded with perseverance,

shaped by the hope that one day

I will be happy.

And I am happy—

I’m not your freak.

---

Look at you, looking at me.

It seems you’re trying hard to steer my ship,

when, in fact,

it’s you who’s lost at sea.

I am not a label, a bruise, or what I eat.

I’m not what society deems proper,

I AM UNIQUE.

So, you worry about yourself,

and I’ll define me.

Bastion

I exposed my soul

to a page for the first time

after a girl rejected me in high school.

I opened the portcullis of my fortress to her,

only to be told I couldn’t be her king—

and I wouldn’t be her knight either.

She did, however, entertain court jester.

I found myself picking up pieces of my heart

from the cobblestone

after she catapulted my towers with repudiation—

my perimeter crumbling on all fronts.

My ego was decapitated in one abrupt swing,

its head brutally affixed to a hundred-foot stake

for the world to see—

making a mockery of a young man’s attempt at love.

But I rebuilt.

I used my spilled blood

to build a moat around my kingdom,

filled it with acid and alligators,

then sewed my scars onto banners

to be hung as heraldry on the exterior walls.

I plastered her image into the joints,

knowing it would harden stronger than mortar,

then withdrew my bridge—

thwarting all newcomers for years to come.

The only map leading back to the kingdom

was drawn in a notebook,

lost on a single page,

and signed with a tear—

left in a cold, dark dungeon below the city streets,

with no key to enter or candle to illuminate the paper.

The words broke through my doors,

took my spirit hostage,

and forced me to write it out—

until I heeled.

Then I healed.

* Indicates Story Placed in Contest or Writing Challenge

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