Words Much Like Poetry

This poem began as a short story written as a class assignment. I was a junior in high school, so the comprehensive editing that I've put it through over the years has been necessary. I wouldn't say that it reflected an immature tone of voice, but my writing style has changed drastically over the last decade and the story is one of my favorites. As I am presenting it here, it has been revised once more. The Intruder on the Beach I have traversed this beach for what seems eons; yet, time upon time, what I seek always eludes me. I seek it in the sound of the crashing waves, the smell of the salt air, the feel of the chill wind— which whips against my weathered face. I walk farther from the water’s edge. eyes scanning the distant horizon, searching an elusive peace of mind in the sun’s reflection upon the blue-green surface of the ocean, I walk. walking on sand that bares much witness to my habitual walks, and those of others, as evidenced in the footprints that crater nigh the ...

It was not so long ago that I posted this poem, but I wish to revisit it because it represents something special. Loss of a loved one can be sorely devastating, and it may take years to come to terms with it. Someone once told me that the pain of a loss doesn't diminish, but rather someone develops the strength and endurance to bear it. Jewelery can sometimes seem to possess a part of a loved one; a little piece of their soul. The wedding band, engagement ring, family heirloom; these hold such significance to our lives in relation to those who have gone before us. The events in this poem are based on truth, something that happened. It tells of the journey of two loved ones who experience an incredible bond, as the life of one of them nears the end. The other has to muster all the courage they can to watch the one they love pass on. It is true some bonds can never be broken, their substance undiluted even unto death. Gems of Memory upon six gems we struck a ...

Xerxes has bribed the old disgusting men and they have been promised oracles, beautiful girls who will live atop a dark mountain, to be violated by orc-like creatures. As she danced, she was to me like an angel, weightless; her sheer garment like wings made with milky water. Frank Miller's graphic novels are what poetic pictures are made of. I have been a fan for a long time and here I make a vain attempt at recreation with a minor modification to add spice. (?) the tender weightless misty threads wisped, spiraled up and met with the stately figure they kissed and caressed tender curves, hugged as they rubbed and rose, skidded upon a heaving curve, hit upon the parabolic obstacle and dispersed a hiss upon the glowing brands and new misty weightless rose they knew their enchantment, they knew their instrumentality snatched, they jetted into a dance with garments, a fanning wing tugged at them until they entered the twin cave and a dark bony clawed hand intruded upon the flawless mil...

This is my take on imprisonment. A Kenyan cell is not a place to be, even a holding cell. The moment you enter one, there is an obvious pecking order, which much later translates to where you are going to sleep. There is the newbie corner, pretty close to the waste basket, if you know what I mean. Then there is the first hall, a corridor really to two adjacent cells. There is the intermediate cell which houses the ones who have been there a week and finally the VIP cell, for those who have been there more than a month (This is a scenario of just one of the holding cells). To be brief, one sleeps on the cold rough floor, packed side by side alternating on opposite ends. This is to ensure a 'best fit' scenario to accommodate a cell meant for ten but packed with a number north of 35. The VIP cell is the only one that has sufficient mattresses and blankets, albeit full of bedbugs. Depending on what you are being held for, your wait can be indefinite, despite the rule that you canno...

Dark poetry appeals to me in certain ways; it might be that every one of us has a dark side. In moments of despair, everything around can mutate to a nightmare. The elements in this poem are contradictory just like dreams are sometimes. I picture myself dreaming while awake, one of those dreams that I will just not wake from. But then again, I might be dreaming that I'm wide awake. It can also be a puzzle, a labyrinth of sorts (I love labyrinths in my poems), where nothing is what it seems and darkness is like cold boiling tar. I cannot point to specific inspiration, other than imaginary sprites whispering dark things into my ear (these would be from the Darkess and the Old Soul series); I just imagined what it would be to lose my mind, not that I would want to. Nevertheless, read and enjoy, and let it have a meaning specific to you. Dark Waking Dreams the ground waves to salute my succulent bliss its accent not without an unheard scream the gauntlet has been served, its rim I will...

Originally untitled, Sunflowers of My Youth was written sometime in the late 1990's. A despairing poem, it was among the first of such despairing works that marked a sense of loss of innocence. Was it only last night that I was so young In knowledge and in action Now I lay here far older than I was yesterday Soiled and unclean with a filth that will never wash off my soul Was it only last night that I was so innocent Believing in ever-lasting love which I now in my old age know doesn't exist Believing that love in its all-encompassing glory could heal a world torn apart by hate Was it only last night that the world seemed so flat Now it with all its rounded dimensions has come crashing down on me Bearing down on me with its overwhelming weight Causing all my fragileness to buckle and snap Devastating me with its one mighty stroke Was it only last night that I was so young Was it only last night that I felt so wonderful in my ignorance and innocence Was it only last night To...