Feigning Wormwood

Sitting idly, the waves ran
through, the sluice
spread toward
an immense resolution.

With finality,
no tears were shed amid
the roaring
the thundering
waves of laughter.

Men,
banging doors with
lusty hands, and
children
sucking their dry
mothers' blood.

And today the sun rose
high seventy-five.
My eyes blinked
in the mirror,
I was exhausted.

My Very, Very First Poems

The following poems are some of my first. During the summer between my freshman and sophmore year of college, I began to write poetry frequently. In this time I was experiencing a lot of difficulties. So, poetry became a type of cathargic form of expression in the situations I was going through. Though I don't believe these poems are in any way the best I've written, I believe these poems formed the foundation for my later pieces. Enjoy and amuse yourself with my immaturity.

Colors twirl
Light swirls
Bending, shifting
Movement mixing
Shards of colored glass
Keep moving pass
Up and down
All around
An eye without locus
Hands that change it's focus
-7/11/05

A mist descended on my path
And I dared not to pass
Grey cloud and shadow mourn
A deep thought like a storm

Rested haze
Did block my gaze
Looking for a thought of light
To end this morning trite
Eventually came
From the voice of His Name
And gave me ground to tread on.
-7/11/05

The moon with silver beam
Shown with pale light all seam'd
Reflected in a pool
During the time of Yule
Like cold and crystal glass
Did a light sparkle pass
And before me I saw my life
It's joy and strife
A sight that I wish I did not see
In the mirrored pool of cruel courtesy.
-7/12/05

A storm swelled the sky
Absorbed the sun well dry
Raindrops came, cold to kill
I could have sworn it broke the mill
Murdered everyone inside
Without leaving them a place to hide
Could it have washed them away?
Yes, I saw them the other day
Safely placed in their frames
-8/6/05

When lonely souls go oft to war
Much received and much forlorned
Do they hear whispers of good deeds?
Or hear the cries of their offspring?
Oh what reason do they wander for?
Seeking gold? Or treasure evermore?
Yet blind are those who with no show
They seek to reap
More black gold to keep
What will would keep them home
The wearied man, the endangered soul?
-11/17/05

You're more than welcome to poke, remark, and deconstruct my early verse. This period in my life was difficult and trying. I wrote at least 1,000 poems from summer of 2005 to summer of 2006. And none of them are worth much now.

Crafting Sign

Loving are the hands
crafting the sign
that sits above the door.
The bell-frame structure
echoed the songs heard
in a distance off the wall.

The old church tucked
away by greedy men
waiting for death grew
impatient for salvation
as they kneaded their hearts
with dull needles
and scarlet thread
not knowing the noose
wrapped around their necks
slackened and tightened again
accordingly.

And as I watched
the sight etch itself
firmly in my mind,
I saw the melody
clear itself from us.