She is Tall Now

She's tall now standing there with the refrigerator door flung open staring into a world of decisions.

The school day wears lightly on her face; her eyes dart between the shelves and the door like fireflies

She is tall now. Her mother competes in a fruitless battle. I notice. She doesn't have to stand on her toes; she doesn't have to step into the refrigerator like her sisters.

She weighs all of her choices.

She's tall now and indecision furrows her brow while she chews on her reddened bottom lip.

In a moment, she shifts the weight of her choices on her hips and plucks an apple from the drawer and leaves.

Her choice made.

I consider this moment in the continuum of her life - my life. She is tall now. The choices are hers now. I fear the seduction of the artificial and the shallow will sugar over her innocence, but I remember the apple and all of its symbolism and think . . . she chose the apple . . . and her life will be rich.

Another Poem

The Occasioned Solitude

December 5^th: Arturo Fuente slowly burned . . .

Coldness blanketed the night with a determination that patiently crept into the tips of toes and of fingers.

The holiday glow of suburbia betrayed the darkness of the night casting dancing hues of violet, white, and gray into the street.

A solitary bat wildly hunted darting between the shifting shadows.

The Occasion ignited.

Arturo stood boldly against the night. Cameroonian and Dominican tones blended in a heated earthiness against the intention of the night. Inflamed, engulfed, contradicting the regulated, the enslaved, the uniformed. Arturo, a blaze in revolution, on this night, would save the world.

She's Tall Now

She's tall now standing there with the refrigerator door ajar staring into a world of decisions.

The school day wears lightly on her face; her eyes dart between the shelves and the door like fireflies

She is tall now. Her mother competes in a fruitless battle. I notice. She doesn't have to stand on her toes; she doesn't have to step into the refrigerator like her sisters.

She weighs all of her choices.

She's tall now and indecision furrows her brow while she she chews on her reddened bottom lip.

In a moment, she shifts the weight of her choices on her hips and plucks an apple from the drawer and leaves.

Her choice made.

I consider this moment in the continuum of her life - my life. She is tall now. The choices are hers now. I fear the seduction of the artificial and the shallow will sugar over her innocence, but I remember the apple and all of its symbolism and think . . . she chose the apple . . . and her life will be rich.

Kings of Suburbia

This is our dominion.

Castles. Secured bastions skirted
by an infantry of concrete.
Sinewy sidewalks,
tandem curbs line neighborly boundaries.

Homogenous mailboxes, sentries,
standing at attention
guarding asphalt moats.
Stones and bricks, bulwarks
against encroaching enemies.

This is our WAR.

We are the masters of strategy planning
against the parasitic platoons
of nimblewills and foxtails.
Ever vigilant against the goose and quack.

We are the generals marshaling
militant mowers, whining weedwackers,
and spinning spreaders
preparing pristine battlefields.

We are the Kings of Suburbia standing
alone prideful of our victories in battle.
Greener days are the dreams of tomorrow.
For us, we soldier on – watchful.

Power Tools

My neighbor has every tool you ever need for any job; they're kept in pristine condition. I've been in his garage. Its like a museum. The sander has a shelf, the skill saw and the drill, like dead bodies on the sidewalk outlined in chalk, hang plumb to the floor. The irony is I have never seen him use them, but, I know he does. I've heard them at night behind the closed garage door. He doesn't talk about his projects, but I hear the screams of the tools and the clammer of the hammer. It makes me wonder . . .

Power Tools

cool electrical power

silent panthers - waiting

to tear in to

to slice a part

to div ide from



honed glistening metal

transient makos - stalking

to dev our greedily

to con sume eagerly

to des troy completely



piercing metallic screams

dervishes in the night - wailing

a requiem of destruction

tear ing,

slic ing,

div iding,

devourin g,

consumi ng,

destroy ing,

only to create a new.

Transitioning into something more poetic

As one door closes another opens. So as I end this cohort experience, this blog needs to shift gears from the thoughts about our cohort to the poetry of a budding writer.

Over the past four years, I have been toying with writing a book. In fact, I have been writing a book of poetry. The working title is called: A Deeper Understanding of the Scratch: Poetry for Men. Now before the walls of poetic injustice fly up, please know that this a bathroom book, a humorous attempt by me to make fun of the middle - mediocrity, my waistline, suburbia, fatherhood, and being a husband. So I thought I would share the opening poem entitled "Hold Me." The original title was more abrasive, "Literary Masterbations," but my wife thought it to garrish.

As I compose (weekly hopefully) further portions of this project, I look forward to your contributions and comments - good and bad. Any good writer worth his salt looks for a good editor, I hope you will be mine. So here is to the scratch . . .

Hold Me

For years
I've turned my phrases
I've twisted my verse
I've honed my prose
Discovering my-self.

For years
Behind closed doors
Between stained sheets
Under expecting shadows
Searching my - voice.

For years
Splattering intimacy
Thrusting emotion
Forcing existence
Blazing my - identity

For years
On spiral lined pages
On formalized parchment
On soaked cocktail napkins
Journaling my - world.

For this
intimacy,
expectation,
moment,
this now.