Book of Poems

This page is a compilation of everything creative I've written that I want to post. Like wine, my writing gets better with age. This book is chronological. You do the math.

The Beautiful Flow
The proverbial melt
We all felt;
The flowing minutes
The river stream of time
Oh the sublime line of time

Buds anew
From the dew
EXPLODE with anticipation
The green, the pink, the beautiful
Suddenly I began to fall

Question the fixation
That we have with sensations
As pollen enters asthmatically
Growth spoke loud
Spring throws off winter’s shroud.

Cool breeze, hits my knees, with the ease to move trees
I just want it to please—warm up, my body from the bottom to the top, don’t let it stop. I need this plot to continue.
It’s coming, you hear it clearly, its not coming so easily, all I do is plea, that the growth would break free, enter into me.
Blossoming fauna, the aroma is a sauna, to every trauma, winter held, spelled—told, controlled—filled, and killed.
The new day, overcame the dark, clouds part.

Slave 2.19.2007
I step out.
I hear the sound of change. (trickle of melting ice)
I feel the rush of time. (wind blowing)
It cools my bones.
It stiffens the senses.
Time rushes by past;
By so fast,
Time rushes past,
Through my face,
Clings to me deceptively.
Why does time fly?
Why can’t it walk?
Enjoy the day, miss the sun, feel warm?
The moment skips;
Like a stone on a brooke,
Like a record.
Why can’t time stay awhile?
It’s there;
Eating your breakfast,
Tying your laces,
Sipping your coffee.
The peaking grass confirms the change.
In matrimony change lies with time.
Scheming to set the ridiculous pace.
I keep on walking, slave to the clock.
Entering change, bracing for impact.
My fate is the mysterious future.

The Table 3.16.2007
Eddie D tries hiding from the obvious.
The effect is not in vain.
The stroll, the quiet stroll, the passive looks.
Which way are they coming?
Burning the neck and forcing out the red.
Fibers cling softly,
Waiters wait their hardest.
The godess sits—legs crossed;
Somehow light floats and time slurs
The looks begin to shift;
The stares intensify with seconds.
She looks at you and you at her.
Somehow nothing matters.
Red turns away and burning flees.
You sit.

Rainy Day 3.23.2007
Water drips the window pane,
Streak, slide, smear.
The bowls and cups fill.
The tipper tapper resounds above.
Children’s outdoor dreams lay in puddles quickly forming.
Slick monkey bars, slippery worms surface for life.
Dusty board games are resurrected.
Hide and seek initiated.
Books fold open, begging to be discovered.
Pawns and bishops argue while kings sweat it out.
New games conceived in the stillness.
Grab the boots for splashing.
Fog rolls in, rain rolls out.
Gloom Looms.

Inches 10.6.2007
The wall towers and mocks me—taunting my every hesitation.
Seconds pass with the jeers of confidence from below.
Strength weighs from every fiber of muscle I have.
Sweat forms on my forearms and drips down my back.
Time seems forever when you’re hanging, contemplating.
Countless 1…2…3’s have passed—which one is the one?
I wait in my own doubt—my ultimate downfall—my doubt.
It’s now or never—I crunch up and get ready to spring.
The leap is short and my hand grazes the hold.
I feel the hold for that brief second—its coarse texture, its perfect shape. It wasn’t meant to be.
If only a few more inches—I fall—only more ready the next time—DYNO—T-Rex of the wall.

Ode to the Five Senses 11.29.2007
Cool—cold—chilly, warm—hot—breezy
Soft—smooth—caress, rough—jagged—unrest
Wet—soggy-squishy, bumpy—prickly—mushy
Slick—ridged—oily, hatched—sharp—pointy
Grains of sand, silky hair, sand paper, nothing but air.
Heat from an iron, yarn on a trace, grass in a field, rain on your face.
The things that we touch, graze and feel,
Are sometimes the only things that seem so real.


You hear the timer—but you already knew what was baking over an hour earlier. You sigh as the soft loaf of warm puffy wheat is taken out of its sauna of wondrous fumes. Home to some of the most stomach churning smells known by man.
The waves crash and sun beats, but that is not the first detail of the day that you notice. The salty sensations tingle your nose as memory after memory of long days at the coast pound against your cerebellum.
Hundreds of green triangle like trees around. The aroma is more than intoxicating. This is the memory as you pull out the pine tree clove you had in your pocket from years past, still pungent with Christmas’s smells. You place it under your nose and Christmas is in full swing again.
The smog of freshly cut grass is almost too much. To a teenager the smell either means feeding the wallet or utter pain. To a baseball player, it is a smell straight from God. The crisp green stains lift into your nose as you exhale.
In trudges the four legged mud machine. The ever popular wet, damp, and grassy smell on fur is all but appealing. It is an immediate reaction as your fleshy smellographer sniffs out the culprit. SICK!
Cringed faces—curious looks—awkward face contortions. You know what it is. That is obvious, but the age old question remains—who delt it?
The King of Stench. The Colossus of Rot. The odor has a name renowned for the worst smell around. You hear it all the time, “Aw…it smells like…rotting eggs!”
Ode to the nose…and all the vapors its smelled.


Savor the flavor and let it linger,
Not to quick—you’re gonna sinder your tongue.

Chew, lick, sample, try,
This sense was made for pie.

Morsels that pave the way to a man’s heart,
Baby did woman have it right from the start.

Steak, peas, mashed potatoes, A1,
Salivation when meat’s in a bun.

Taste bud appreciation year,
Every day near and dear.


Radiance reflecting, retina reacting,
Bright gleam blinds your ability.

Clear day, mountains rise on either side of you,
River in-between-the most beautiful scene.

Trees caked with snow, everything white,
Everything still, you soak it in.

Red, yellow, brown, orange--leaves pile,
Favorite season, favorite sight, dreams are made of these.

An Ocean of Trees, one after the other, on and on,
You’re 500ft up, looking out, eagle soars--magnificent.

She walks on the floor in white radiance,
She stops and stares through your eyes--perfect.

Sometimes our eyes see terrible things, and when those
Times come--I remember everything truly awesome that
They have witnessed.


The Din, it wins--overpowering the sin, of the sound, it pounds, travels all around, blastin’ trashin’, this music is long lastin’. Noise, makes a point, to anoint my hearing, my listening, my attention acute, making minute changes, like a flute it arranges, like notes on the pages. Soft and LOUD, thunder from a cloud, sqeaks from a Pins dropping, kids laughing, drums smashing, bombs exploding, guns loading, hawks the air, wind passing through the fair, quite feathers...barely making a my heart leaps and bounds..thump thump, thump thump, thump thump. Ambienticity, the wave overcomes me.

The Gorge
What flow the river flows
Glow the sun glows
Snow melts and grass grows
It’s true, the time slows
And it’s only God that knows
The discharge of my life,
My highs and lows
The breeze tingles as it blows
Simultaneously waking
as the bird crows
End of the trip—the van—it tows
Away our dirty clothes
My favorite weekend ends with prose.

The Station 5.4.2008
The incoming wind of past journey and past experience
Rolls into the station of anticipation--where I wait.
"The sooner the better," I say to myself.  Sooner is better.
Half believing, half trusting—I cling to the known.
Different is different and I am anything but indifferent to the “to be”
Who enjoys the breaking of normal days, routine schedules, similar acquaintances?
Why is the shifting of the seasons essential?
This barbed wire fence closes in—tighter and closer.
I don’t want to board—they can’t make me go.
Home is where the heart is—remember?
So Fast…We’re moving so fast!
Backpedaling is so tiring—so tired
It is imperative to forget forgetting
The cookie cutter shapers, the hands of the potters, the strokes of the painters.
All will never be forgotten—2 years will never be forgotten.

Stroke of Beauty 2-6-09
The wetness marks the crying of winter, the melting of transitions past.
The warmth relays to the embrace of spring, hoping it has come to last.

With each muddy footprint, each slosh in my shoe, I give an audible grin.
With each drip of water off the rooftop, I smile to the glorious din.

It’s about time for some change, the feel of cold leaving like memories of old.
It’s about time for some change, flowers peek through colorful and bold.

Another year, marked by water entering gutters, and grass again apart of our lives.
Another season, marked with the tears of sad, tears of happy, we know life strives.

It’s with this that only words can paint the canvas, the art-form that is this world.
It’s with this that only words can make us see, the beauty quietly unfurled.

The Raft 9.10.2009
A flow-running free, liquid glee, under my feet, rush into me.

A tree towers high, birds of the sky, on branches they cry, their wings cut as they fly

A rush, making green lush, mud I crush, wind in a hush.

A glow from below, reflecting yellow, sunlight grow, a river doth flow, a happy fellow.

Sunrise is Coming… [for a girl in the hospital] (wrote during a sunrise) 2.20.2009
The sunrise is coming! Can’t you see? Can’t you feel light
about to break free?
The sunrise is coming! The darkness will flee. Sunlight
gracefully pours over me.

The sunrise is coming! Hold out the night! Keep on holding.
Don’t give up the fight!
The sunrise is coming! Here comes the light! Don’t let up,
with all of your might.

Just over the edge, over the hill, over the ridge, litte
Further still. I can feel the warmth, I can see it now!
I can feel the warmth, no questions how…

The sunrise is coming! The daylight is here. No more
running, no more fear.
The sunrise is coming! Awaken what may.
Awaken a promise, awaken the day.

The Tears Clouds Bring 10.30.2009
This is the wet, set in stone, dripping from a phone, a mothers cry, a babies sigh.
This is the dropping of pain, they're feeling insane, when their screams are in vane.
These are the tears clouds bring, they tend to sing as they rip through the wings, birds fly in sync.
This is the damp reality, the truth in formality, the hidden mortality, beneath the fatality.
This is the ragging rapid, feeling pretty vapid, alone in the wake, mask of the fake.

True Love Will Find You in the End 12.9.2009
This is Maximum. The most. The best. Love at its greatest. Above the rest. Feelings of warmth, joy, bliss. Making sure you don't miss loves true kiss. The flutter within the cage of bones. Long hours, countless words exchanged on phones. This is the Maximum. The most. The best. You know it's real. It's in the chest. That gut reaction. The satisfaction. The feeling pushing you right into action. The nerves, the smiles, the pain, the trials. It makes you sick, like smelling turnstiles. This is the Maximum. The most. The best. Where true love can shine and push the test. Where two can share, sacrifice, invest. Where they defy all odds with passion and finesse. This is where beauty is beautiful and love is lovely. Where dinner and a movie means ice cream is likely. When the letter in the mail arrives o' so timely. This is where men search true love in the quest. When feelings are no longer so deeply suppressed. Where reason is abandoned and Love is professed. This is the Maximum. The most. The best.

Words, words, words 1.9.2010
Your beauty is everywhere. It breathes like a gust from the coast, like a song with the most, it covers all worth to boast. Your beauty stretches across the skies, beyond the rolling waves, past the gull she flies. This word that describes, it works and it tries–failing to capture all that you are, like trying to say you’re as bright as a star…the justice is lost when you’re not near but far. Words, words, words, I wrap them in a gift, like emotion still badly needing to sift, through holes in your hands they fall o’ so swift, how do I convey that a sunrise causes my heart to skip. In awe here I stand, wondering how you worked this all with your hand, it’s the absolute farthest thing from bland, standing here…I’m just a speck of sand. Words, words, words are all that they are, strokes of your brush, hush from afar…

Every New Day Seems So New 1.14.2010
New day today, I could drag myself out...instead I stay. Wallowing in the newness, the rays of change. They melt the snow, the still seems so strange. I breathe in new air, new life, new hair. Ha, shave off that new part, open the word, get ready my heart. The new day consists of many small things. Beginning tasks, awaking from dreams. Groggy and clumsy I force open my eyes, still not ready to look at the light of the skies. But once its done and all is in sync, I sit in my chair and start releasing the ink--from the pen it flows and captures the thoughts. The feelings, emotions, the rivers, the oceans. They all start to flow. They grow and they grow. Until the light from the shades reminds me to blow---in and out, breathing you see. When you begin writing, even that isn't easy. You pour out your soul and satisfy only yourself. No audience to clap, no books on the shelf. This is the new day, ripe to renew. Just waiting to wake, just waiting for you.

Beauty Full 11.8.2009
This is the day that has been made for you, it sings from the blue, the bird as it flew.
Today, beauty rises up from the chill, it tries to instill the joy that you fill.
The beauty of today reflects the beauty in your eyes, the blue from the skies drips down and cries, because you are full of beauty, it is you--whole and complete, you melt the snow, love sorrow defeats.
Today, beauty arrives in true form, flowing lightly, like a leaf in a storm.
This is the day that has been made for you, a flower in spring, buds life anew.

The Most Beautiful Thing Ever Written 11.18.2009
No, this is not my interpretation of the most beautiful thing ever written. This is your interpretation, your perception, your conception.
What is the most beautiful thing you have ever experienced?
Beauty surrounds, in sounds, beneath mounds, it abounds in Love, in the foregrounds of smiles, resounds in profiles. Beauty camps out with joy, with awesome wonder, emotion deploy, morning whisper.
What is beauty to you? Is it the rise of new day glow? Water bending in its flow? Din of cities turned down low? Heavy blankets in December snow? What is beautiful, I want to know. Ask me, and I will echo. Hearing your voice say hello, the emotion in waiting till tomorrow, saying goodbye to sorrow, moving from much too fast to wonderfully slow. They say Beauty is in the eyes of the perceiver. What do you see? Is it her?

This Pen 1.17.2010
The dark, cool liquid pours out from the pen, again and again…it reminds me of when- I was younger and obsessed, so easily professed, like a badge or a crest, I wore it on my vest, piercing my chest, no way to stop it…unless…another came along. This was a song, a beautiful harmony of fairness and  loveliness, a melody of artfulness, whisper of breathlessness. This pen, it flows…and it’s clear that it knows, the detail of the art, the beat from the start, the pain that is so often completely apart, of the glorious outpour, the tales of the heart.

1 comment:

this thought said...

You're doing some great work out here!

Also, dude, check out the epic poem Natalie just wrote: