Poetry. What is it beyond the words set to a scheme or free verse? It can tell a story as much as prose does, and can often say more in less words. Imagery, emotion, phonetics … it’s the most difficult of the written arts, and one which intimidates some and draws eye rolls from others. And, yet, form and function aside, what does it mean to be a poet?

To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.

~Robert Graves

My poems will live here until—and if—I ever decide to compile a book of poetry. It’s a strange art, and one of the most discomforting things to share publicly. Still, it’s necessary to share your poems; the words need to be read aloud and live.

  • The Bonsai
    The Bonsai Most of you have curb appeal You’re lawns, and well maintained Foundation plantings lend design Your annuals well arranged In synchrony you always bloom Within your narrow beds Competing down the […]
  • A Heart on Fire
    A Heart on Fire A heart on fire Burns away Decades pass Scars remain Ashes scatter Gather again A new flame rises An old heart pains Not forgotten Sorrow wanes Hope rekindles Faith, […]
  • Mornings in Bed
    Mornings in Bed I long to get up out of bed everyday And charge straight ahead Greeting folks on my way To share just a bit of my burdensome mind And learn from […]
  • Beast
    Because we all love poems about heartbreak. You, oh, my darling, Are simply a beast Delightfully wild In a world of dull things Trapped from your birth in a world full of sorrows […]
  • La Desgracia
    La desgracia de mi vida Fue quererte a ti Mas que mis otros errores El dolor de mi amor Por ti me deje caer Sabiendo quien eras tu Desde que te conocí Y […]
  • Haiku 1
    Originally shared over at Phoenix Fire Press on July 03, 2020.
  • #Cancelled
    Being born Catholic is like being born cancelled I heard someone once say From your earliest days you are taught to apologize For your fallen state To beg mercy from an authority both […]
  • June 04, 2020 in Buffalo, NY
    Not a single heart among a nameless, faceless, uniformed mob Informed by a system intent to do more harm than good Uninformed of the way in which they wear a uniform that makes […]
  • A Matter of Lives
    All lives matter But do they matter equally? In theory, sure they do But not so in reality The cry itself to uphold All Drowns out the strangled voices When they do finally […]
  • Somewhere
    Somewhere, Mozart is playing With dirt under his nails And leaves in his hair The sounds of his world want to leap out of him And he wants to keep them Inside Outside […]


Calliope, the muse of epic poems.
Erato, the muse of love poems.
Polyhymnia, the muse of sacred poems.
Of the nine muses, three reigned over different kinds of poetry.
That should give us all a clue as to just how complex an art form it is. The other muses ruled over astronomy, history, tragedy, comedy, dance, and music. They were the daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, a representation of memory. I find that fascinating because, way back then, there were no books or computers. Poets and other learned persons had to keep their art in their memories.

I’m afraid my poetry here is not quite up to par with the expectations of the Greek muses. Neither sacred nor epic—my apologies to Polyhymnia and Calliope—they’re nevertheless honest poems drawn from my own life. Certainly, Erato would not be pleased with what passes for love poetry here, either. Although, perhaps “A Heart on Fire” might earn a polite smile from the muse of love poetry, after all.