In The Snow - Prismacolor Pencil And Whiteout On Paper

Sunset Over Atlantic

The tan line on my ring finger has faded,

just another reminder of the time we’ve lost

since that day at the beach when my ring

washed away with the tide. We couldn’t afford

to replace it. Maybe I should have taken that as

a sign.

A Reaction in Four Parts

When I asked if this was what you wanted,

you wouldn’t give an answer. The cancer

of uncertainty gnaws at my muddled

mind as I look back and wonder if all

this time was just a game when I saw you

in goodnights and birthdays and holidays

and futures. What sutures do you use to

close the wounds of unanswered thoughts? Perhaps

the good is lost in the bitter flavor.

  When I asked if this was what you wanted,

you responded with anger. A stranger

emerged, unwilling to talk, to give a

glimpse of what was beyond the steely stare.

I’d praise you for your perseverance, your

unwavering commitment to this last

decision, if only I could know my

words would even be heard. No pity in

your words, to make letting go easier.

  When I asked if this was what you wanted,

there was sadness in your tone, screaming through

the words that reluctantly emerged. I

could feel that you felt the pain that you dealt,

even as you said it didn’t matter.

Your subtle silences spoke volumes. This

was special. We were special. But that can’t

matter when you know that special can not

overcome unconcluded history.

  When I asked if this was what you wanted,

you wouldn’t give an answer, because the

answer is clear: what we must do is not

always what we want.

To Save A Wretch Like Me

In an attempt to inspire myself to start writing again, I have decided to gradually post the poetry collection I wrote during my last semester of college. It tells the story of two young lovers caught in an unhealthy relationship, confused by the values they've been brought up with, struggling to figure out what directions they're meant to take in life. A lot of the poems are still rather rough and I welcome feedback, but as a whole I hope you enjoy the collection.

Without further ado, I shall present poems from the collection, To Save a Wretch Like Me. To begin, part one: Temptation

The Ten Commandments

Thou shalt have no other gods before me. Thou shalt not worship idols. Thou shalt not take the name of thy lord in vain. Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. Honor your father and your mother. Thou shalt not murder. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not give false testimony. Thou shalt not covet.

Visitors! Welcome to our humble church.

This is Brother Sam, be nice to him,

he’s only happy if he’s the center of attention.

And this is one of our Elders, Tom. That’s

his new BMW in the parking lot. I swear, he

loves that thing more than his wife! And oh my

God, there’s Sister Tina, hard at work preparing

lunch! I swear that woman never takes a day off.

Oh dear, here comes the pastor’s son - don’t

make eye contact, his father kicked him out

last weekend for telling him to “fudge” off,

pardon my language. I heard they had a fight

over Pastor Phillip backstabbing his brother

over an old grudge, but I could be mistaken.

Look, it’s his wife! She and the associate pastor

have been rather close lately. His suits have also

been getting nicer. Funny, I’d think his salary

would shrink with how the weekly collections

been dropping. Oh well. Oops, time to take

our seats! The youth minister is preparing to

testify before the congregation that he didn’t

pull a Clinton with our little miss Monica.

Feel free to find me after service - I’ll just be

here, coveting a life away from “Christians.”

Gas Prices Skyrocket

He bluffed, “It’s the cheapest you’ll find a vintage sports car.”

She huffed, “It looks rather new for a vintage sports car.”

Love for the ages: soft, steady, slow, and sweet, or a

flame: fast, beautiful, and deadly, like a vintage sports car.

Pulling off her shirt she felt revealed, reviled, repulsive,

telling herself it’s not trashy if you do it in a vintage sports car.

Cherry red, blood red, red wood. Scattered under moonlight.

On the accident report they called it a vintage sports car.

Heaven forbid honesty! Hide your feelings, your secrets,

undercover. Like in the driveway, a vintage sports car.

Status symbols: a Rolex watch, a million bucks, a

yacht in the bay. Trade your wife for a vintage sports car.

The past thrown away, left to rot and not be remembered.

Left to decompose in a junkyard next to a vintage sports car.

Lost, lonely, loveless? Ditch the club, forget online dating.

One thing that can never leave you: A vintage sports car.

To escape your problems you must run far away.

My suggestion? Zero to sixty in a vintage sports car.

A gold-digging robbery! Get away with his money, his heart,

a license plate reading RAY-RAY on a vintage sports car.

To Tokyo, With Love

Long lost lover living out

of sight, out of mind. I find myself

forgetting how it was to lay

eyes upon you, to lay beside

the water, to feel the soft caress

of your whispered words on my

waiting ear. Lover half a world away,

I no longer remember the sharp

glint of your smile, the sensuous

depth of your laughter. All I remember

Is your impossible perfection. Absence

makes the heart grow ill, poisons

memories to be larger than

love. Stay away lover, I fear

you’ll rob me of my love for your

image. I have broken a commandment;

I idolize your memory above you.

Loitering

Smoke curls from the ashen tip

of a long-lit cigarette on a moonless night

The streetlamp light arcs through the rain

tiny diamonds disappearing to dust

He breathes out death, lungs burning

one more light will make it okay,

further from the end, another hour

for the pain to fade a little.

Smoke disappears like the rain in the

navy air, and yet the cool ice of her eyes

is all the more vivid in his empty mind.

Deja Vu

I’ll make everything up to you, love.

Hands grasping hers, knee against the steering wheel.

The shadow of the steeple blankets them

through the windshield, crossing his heart.

He is Judas, throwing back the silver.

He is not who he was. Neither is she.

And yet they’ve been here before.

Poison Apple

The church is cold as I perch on my pew.

The heater is broken again, third time

this winter. The preacher has begun his

sermon, but all I hear is the silence of your

absence.

My phone rings. It should turn it off,

especially since it’s playing our song.

I know it’s you. I shouldn’t answer.

I stand and duck out to the lobby.

I know judgmental looks are following me.

Your hesitant hello send heat coursing

through my frozen veins, awakening

my stifled senses. Brother Phillip’s

voice echoes over the loud speaker,

but his words are as distant as God.

All I hear is your heavy breathing.