poems
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Sky brought a caterpillar to class. Shortly before my seventh period British Literature course began, Sky introduced me to her caterpillar (Fred, I believe she named him), a token from her lunch outside in the park. Rather than send her back outdoors to return the woolly bear to its rightful domain, I allowed her to
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When I began crafting this poem, I fully intended to mimic the style of Geoffrey Chaucer’s “General Prologue” to The Canterbury Tales: “When that August with his beastly heat…” However, I found the set meter and rhyme too restricting for the random wanderings of a father and his young sons up and down the stream
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Last Sunday, I started mulling over the phrase “marionette me.” I’ve always been impressed by the master marionettests who can bring puppets to life through the subtle, intentional movement of strings, operating unseen. I guess I’ve always appreciated puppets. I was raised on Sesame Street and, more importantly, The Muppet Show. I used to love
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I admit that I don’t handle myself nor others well when I’m frustrated, tired, or just haven’t taken some time to feed my soul. I feel guilty, honestly, when I take the time to sit down and write poetry, let alone create these posts, when I have six children, a wife, a job, and many
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The boys upstairs await my final call of “Lights out!” I’m camping out with them in their room this week while my wife and two children are away. They’d much rather read until I come to bed for a few moments of reading myself before nodding off, book in hand. The days begin to take
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I am out of rhythm. Summer always greets me with its welcoming arms of rest and renewal, but in the name of rest and renewal, I neglect some of the basic rhythms of life. I am not rising early. I’m not going to bed early enough to rise early. There’s little to structure my days
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Just over a year ago, I intended to post this poem. Tonight, it felt fitting. How easily I allow deceit to choke my peace! How easily I simply give up, rather than fight on despite the odds, frustrations, or fears. It’s just easier to believe the lie or kneel to fear. The Greco-Roman myths, full
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When we were children, storms tended to frighten us. I’m not sure when the switch happened, but for me, they inspire reverence. Over the past week, we’ve had our share of storms where I live. This took me back to a poem I wrote almost two years ago, birthed out of a similar storm-gazing experience.
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A little over a week ago, a dead branch I was cutting knocked me off my extension ladder, causing me to fall seventeen feet to the lawn below. By the grace of God, I broke nothing. Once I got my breath back, I reset the ladder, climbed back up, and finished the cut. I even
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I have been waiting all year to post this one! Although I wrote this poem three years ago, I’ve had it lingering in the digital wings for a variety of reasons. I had big dreams of this being published elsewhere, in some “reputable magazine,” but a few rejection letters later, and I’ve put that thought
the deepening ground 