be aware of their presence
earn their trust
act slowly
do not frighten them
but let them notice me
talk gently to them
poems want to befriend me
but
tend to be skittish
be patient and
let them come to me
Never get too tired.
Never get too hungry.
Never get too bored.
Never get too lonely.
Vice had me
long before
I made it home.
It was all I could think
to do for the night.
No written word.
No companionship.
Just gimme more of my drug
and it never seems enough.
Never get too high.
Never get too easy.
Never get too sad.
Never get too empty.
Now I’m filled
with all of these chemicals,
both consumable
and woven through the brain.
But they are not designed
to be forever states.
A spiraling begins, and
all the fuel gets dumped.
Now I’m hollow,
so hollow,
and what was hallowed
is conflagration–
now there’s a man
who never learned
how to overcome his own heat.
Never get too angry.
Never get too desp’rate.
Never get too lost.
Never get too loveblind.
This is
poetry for failures
because the world doesn’t know
it could have lost me
not so long ago.
Poetry for failures
because the world does lose
people every day
less resilient than I.
Trust me
when I warn you
that anything-
absolutely anything-
can get inside your empty
if you leave to neglect and waste
your interior castles.
Become your own fortress
with towers of community.
Be ready
to slam down your portcullis
when evil wants to play.
Find friendship. Find passion.
Pick a pencil up or get onto a podcast.
Make music. Play trivia.
Fill yourself with only those things that nourish you.
And…
Never get too Hungry.
Never get too Angry
Never get too Lonely.
Never get too Tired.
With Spring, the medics came, scripts and search lights,
blood returns to extremities, blushes and a faint
tingling sensation.
The landscape is a bruise.
“Say ahhh,” says a medic to a daffodil
who showed up three weeks late, and then refused
to join in the synchronized dance
of the Easter parade—
the travesty, people dressed as flowers,
dayglo vigil cheering on the mass resurrection,
only to have a daffodil hold its breath,
pass through shades of red like Dante,
apparent Narcissus wannabe. The naysayers
weren’t having it. Some thought
it had become a Communist.
Pygmalion even tried to teach it
to roll over and play dead.
“You’ll jump through hoops for me,
Dracula,” he rhapsodized, which just confused
the daffodil even more.
The medic poked the tongue depressor into its bloom,
too far, it turns out: he saw way back—
the decayed leaf matter from which it sprung,
traces of the armadillo roadkill from last Spring,
the tendon and fur the wind planted all along
the backroads—enter Johnny Appleseed
cloaked like the Grim Reaper to shield
himself from March’s chilled breeze—
miniscule roadkill seeds that split open
mouthfuls of canopy and fur and sprouts
of light, until the dandelions as they tear apart
purr, show the daffodils how to start over.
I want to remember…
Clone Wars
Marvel marathons
And carpool discussions of what we would do in a zombie apocalypse
I want to remember…
Pizza handmade by you and your best friend
Laser tag
And summer visits to the water park
I want to remember
Bed time routines when you read to me
Your pleading for me to make the PBJ you could absolutely make yourself
The relief-regret of sending you off to shower and brush your teeth without supervision
I’ve gotten so accustomed to you next to me in sleep
I felt the ripple of your departure
and then drifted off again.
But hearing in the wavy lull of my dreams
“Look, the moon”
I opened my eyes to see
first your silhouette, hair a curly expanse of halo,
and then her
perched just off the balcony
a beacon in her fullness.
I smiled at the silent sight
your whisper still floating in my consciousness
as I curled back into you.
In the morning you apologized for waking me
as if I wasn’t buoyed by a bonus midnight moment with you
as if I’d ever regret
glimpsing the moon
as if I didn’t love you more
for this gentle gift.
You don’t yet know
the space that you’ve filled
poured into the hollows between my bones
I’m more awake asleep in your arms
than all the days that came before you.
6/2/26
I was rolling along last year, inspired, hammering out more verse in a month than I typically would write over several years – when I fell overboard
swallowed up like Jonah by the great white whale that is my career.
That happens a lot, an occupational hazard.
And then NOTHING at all came to me for months on end.
I never intended to revisit poems I had previously written
but suddenly there were several obvious follow-ups that presented themselves.
No subtelty
SECOND VERSE, (almost) SAME AS THE FIRST.
WRITE THIS. RIGHT NOW.
So I’m not certain if this is just the natural next chapter, or if it portends a weird method of transportation to get us where we’re going.
But clearly 2026 poetry is going to be an interesting ride.
New Horizons I have sought
Exotic by the sea
So far from obligation
No chance of finding me
Routine I am running from
I yearn to be alone
I think of all things missing
From my Kentucky Home
Silhouettes of palm tree leaves
Dancing in coastal wind
Seagulls flying overhead
Caw-cawing without end
Constant crashing of the waves
Surf bubbles into foam
Quick I was to leave behind
Left my Kentucky Home
Days into the holiday
So restless I’ve become
A drifting mind torments me
Like loosened unbound tome
Thoughts of what I’ve left behind
I quickly start to comb
Land of Bluegrass beckons me
Back to Kentucky Home
I’ve seen enough of boardwalks
I’ve seen enough of dunes
Thinking back on fonder times
As lonely as the loon
Watching seconds passing by
Just like a metronome
Occupying all my mind
Thoughts on Kentucky Home
With the sun I rise anew
Aiming for a head start
Rush and pack and load the car
Happily I depart
I spare no glance behind me
Nor do I dare to roam
Back to the place I’m tethered
Tied to Kentucky Home
Tulip poplar, goldenrod
Adorn the mountain coal
Oak and horse and cardinal
The hills and grassy knolls
I’ve taken things for granted
Maiden of Southern Soul
Commonwealth I pledge to you
My heart for Kentucky Home.
In the hills above Pikeville, where the fog drifts slow,
And the river bends quiet through the valley below,
There stands a stone lady with eyes turned to town,
Watching the streets as the daylight falls down.
Her name was Octavia Hatcher, young, gentle, and fair,
With dreams of a family and ribbons in her hair.
She married young James when the mountains were green,
And built a small life where the Big Sandy gleamed.
Then winter brought sorrow no mother should know,
When her infant son Jacob was taken below.
The cradle sat silent, the nursery still,
And grief settled deep in her heart on the hill.
The spring came in warmth, but no comfort it gave,
For Octavia drifted toward what seemed like a grave.
She fell into silence, so still and so pale,
While family and doctors stood helpless and frail.
“She’s gone,” came the whisper.
The church bells were rung.
The hymns filled the hollow.
The mourning begun.
And because of the heat of that early May day,
They carried her quickly and laid her away.
The earth closed above her, the prayers all were said,
And Pikeville believed she was peacefully dead.
But days later, strange sickness swept through the town.
Others fell sleeping, then woke and came round.
A terrible question spread fear through the air:
What if Octavia still lay living in there?
So James climbed the hillside with dread in his chest,
To disturb the young woman he’d laid there to rest.
They opened the coffin beneath darkened skies,
And horror was waiting before their eyes.
The satin was shredded.
The wood scarred and torn.
Her fingers were bloodied.
Her face marked by scorn.
She had awakened in darkness alone,
With mountains above and no path to home.
She fought against silence, against earth and despair,
But no one could hear her deep under there.
The town carried sorrow for many long years.
Her story passed down through whispers and tears.
James raised her a monument high on the crest,
A marble remembrance where she could still rest.
And some say on evenings when spring winds arrive,
When dogwoods are blooming and memories thrive,
The statue turns slowly away from the town,
As though she remembers being lowered down.
Whether truth or legend, the mountains still keep
The tale of the woman denied peaceful sleep.
And above old Pikeville, through sunshine and rain,
Octavia watches the valley again.
Her voice is the wind through the sycamore trees,
Her grief rides the river and drifts on the breeze.
A warning. A memory. A sorrowful prayer.
To listen more closely.
To make certain we’re there.
