I saw a ghost today,
she looked like you,
same clothes,
same hair,
same bulgy nose.

My eyes knew it wasn’t you,
but my heart was too shocked
to care.

I ran into her three times
in the aisles as I hunted for a meal.
My eyes told me the truth
but my heart begged me to believe.

The salad for one was bitter,
not like the Coneys
we used to get from Walt’s.

If I could tell you what was new,
I would tell you I quit drinking,
it never eased the pain anyway,
and I hope you would be proud.

It has been nearly four years now,
and the grief has never left,
never eased.

I force myself to live,
but there is no passion to it,
no drive,
no point.

…still, tomorrow I hope.




The pictures I hang
are attempts
to silence the walls.

Images of my new life,
new dreams,
I give new stories
to the walls,

but the walls have their own tales.

They speak of you daily,
they weep in the emptiness
you left.
They love you,
and will not let you go.

The End

When the end came it was a surprise to everyone. The sky looked the same as it did the day before. The birds sang and the flowers bloomed. Clouds drifted lazily through a deep blue sky. Children played blissfully unaware of the precious hours they had left. Had there been a way to prevent it, they would surely have tried. The government would have made decrees, issued laws, setup shelters. They knew nothing though. Life, for a time, simply carried on. The people lived in what peace they were accustomed to. Businesses opened on time. Commuters complained about their ride to work. Babies cried. Lovers made love.

Those who had looked to the skies for their destruction for a thousand years would have been disappointed. It didn’t come from the sky. It didn’t come from the land. It simply…came. There was no buildup. No flash. No great explosion. They were there one moment, and not the next. In the wink of an eye an entire species ceased to exist. The remnants of a once great civilization were left behind. Monuments erected to powerful leaders still stood, overlooking empty cities. Artwork hung in halls no one would ever visit. Books on every subject imaginable began to immediately collect dust. Inventions that took lifetimes to perfect stopped working. It was as if, somewhere on a great computer that tracks the universe, someone simply highlighted the entry entitled “Man” and hit delete.

Pompous and arrogant as they were, they would have been shocked to learn that the other species that had shared the land with them gave no notice of the change. Birds sang. Flowers bloomed. Clouds drifted lazily through a deep blue sky.


This is a silly little story that I wrote almost entirely on my Kindle Fire. I got the idea after having to delete some characters I was making for one of my animation projects. Just got to thinking how easy it might be for God to just hit that key and start over.

Some Days I Wake Up,

Some Days I Wake Up,

and feel the World is mine.
It belongs only
to me,
and I may do with it
as I please.
I may keep it,
or throw it away.
I may bite into it
and savor the juices
as they stream down my arms,
sticky and sweet.
The World is mine,
and mine alone.

The World
is a friend.
We laugh and dance,
and play together,
children of the same
fertile Mother.
We use the Moon as a ball
and run like Wind,
toward the promise of

Some days I wake up
and feel the World is mine.

Does Your Poem Mean What You Think it Does?

In his book Passing Through-The Later Poems New and Selected by Stanley Kunitz says “Poetry, I have insisted, is ultimately mythology, the telling of the stories of the soul.” I have often said of my poems, that I write stories in the form of poems. I think that it is much the same for every poet. Personally, when I write a poem I do not necessarily have a message that the reader is supposed to “learn” from the reading. I am simply telling a story, with a purpose. The purpose is, more times than not, to get what I am feeling out and onto the paper. Poetry is a much more personal endeavor than writing a short story, or even a novel. The poet must allow the reader into the hidden depths that one would normally keep private and shut away. I have admitted to things in a poem that I would never admit to in conversation. Still, I find at times that the story behind the poem is often missed. While this does not offend me, it does sometimes disappoint. If you have read any of my work, it would not take you long to put together a picture of me. I am a lonely guy who is not sure of his place in this world, nor my value to it. I write poems in an attempt to connect with others in some way. A good example of this would be a recent poem I wrote called Why I Write Poems.

Now that I have a little of the introduction out of the way let us get to the point of this article. The meaning of poems. A few weeks ago I showed a poem of mine to a coworker/friend and asked her to tell me what she thought of it. The poem is I Dreamt of Roses. I ask you to do an exercise and go and read the poem before you continue with this article, to get an idea of what you think it is supposed to mean.

*pausing for you to read the poem*

I am not sure where I heard, or who said this, but I remember hearing/reading this somewhere a long time ago…A person comes into a poem with all of their baggage, experience and memories. They look at a poem through their eyes and not the poets. Whatever meaning a person gets from a particular poem is their meaning. It is no less correct than the meaning any other reader might get. A poem is not a static thing, but lives and breathes and changes depending upon the readers experiences in their own life. Once I learned this I actually started to enjoy writing poems a bit more. I didn’t need to have the reader “get” what I wanted out of the poem. It took some pressure off in a way.

Still… there are times when I wish what I meant to say did get through. In the example of I Dreamt of Roses, I had something that I wanted to get across. The poem was based upon an actual dream I had. The dream, as mine sometimes do, lingered with me for a few days. When I read the poem I can still feel the pain of the dream. The friend I showed the poem to said it was “Cute” (you know, because it has a cat in it).

So, do your poems mean what you think they do? The answer is, of course they do, but they also mean whatever it is they mean to the reader, even if your heart if breaking and they think it is cute.

Leave a comment and talk about some of your experiences. I would love to hear from you.