A Thought of You

OK. This is a different style poem then I usually write. I hate explaining my writing, so i’ll leave it up to you to find what the imagery of the hoarder means.

“A Thought of You”

The cerebral cortex

Is a house with no back door,

No back yard with a dog on a string,

No neighbor kid

playing on a swing,

No morning light

No touch of mythic night.

No weeds growing by the fence,

Or flowers in spring’s suspence.

Just walls,

Corners and corridors,

Walls entending, walls peeling

with a thin layer

of faded compassion.

I keep the front rooms cluttered,

Receipts, a crumpled submission,

And yellow nespapers scatterred,


Broken spine books and dirty dishes,

Magazines stacked crookedly,

The floor creaks

But the past rests silently.

A few pictures

Of you:

With broken

Disjointed frames

Asymmetrical shards of glass

That I cut my fingers on,

_________That is,

_________If I ever clean over there.


Love, spacial distance of where you are

and my front door,

Conmtemplation  of your cold starlight:

But i don’t visit the window anymore.

Time, scar tissue thought,

The electrical burn of

What memory brought,

Into the dim lit prison

Extending endlessly

Into the chasm:

A house decrepid.

Blue walls, you liked blue so much.





Yet the Wind

Wind rattles the worn shutters,

The sound bothers him.

Snow speckles the grass

Just like the weather man said,

A picture of his brother before his tour in Vietnam

On the desk beside the bed,

Annoyed, he leaves the radio on and heads outside

He has work to do.

Crooked arthritic gait, grass stiff under feet

Mixed with half glossed mud,

A half a mile from the paved street.

A humbling chill

Fifteen miles per hour

From the west, 

Turns his face red,

Breathing in burns his chest,


Sets his face downward,

Like the day he prayed

In the chair beside her bed,

At the conclusion of her mortality.

Different now, indeterminable to know when,

Gradual as the rot of his barn,

A realization as he bears the work

With the flannel shirt, wool lined jacket

And worn leather gloves,

many winters as such, many winters…

  ——-yet the wind.

When did life lose its warmth?

So I am finishing up my last undergrad classes this week, and it is kind of nerve racking, because I still don’t have a job.

I have often been asked what I want to be after I graduate, and I usually respond with the career path that sounded good that week. lol. And I do have a general idea of what I want to do, but that’s just it, a general idea.

But throughout my last semester I came to realize something. When someone talks about who I am, I don’t want them to label me by my job. “oh I know Joe, he worked at campus security…” Or, “he went to LeTourneau and went on to do this *insert job title*” That is really lame to me. Because, my job does not = who I am.

I want people to know me by who I really am and want to be.

I am follower of Jesus.

I want to be a good man, a just man, and a loving man. That just seems a whole lot more meaningful to me.

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Climbing Trees: A Poem


Mom seeking quiet

Hurried me outside:

Forgetting my shoes by the front closet,

Leaving my socks on the back porch

Through the screen door, then,

Running to the canopying maples

Just past the clustered pines,

Mom had things to do, but she gravitated towards

The double paned glass.

Star burning energy, glimpses of sensation:

Climbing high enough to see Robin’s nest,

It’s fluttering wings, perched on the twisted twigs,

Feeding its young.

I perched myself a time or two. Watching my dog, Nicky, chasing squirrels

Along the fence. Sometimes, seeing my mom through the branches.

In the crossing of brief moments,

Childhood eclipsed.


Time made me responsible,

Education is learning

That I have things to do.

Yet sometimes, I climb the wooden stairs,

Past hastily labeled brown boxes,

Stacked on the floor,

From memory‘s dim attic window, I,

Look out from the height of order

Upon that field of summer’s revelry:

A taste lingering

Of sweet chocolate and sugar cane

I had got for being a good boy,

Wearing proudly my red ball cap

From playing spring baseball,

Jeans that already had a grass stain,

I see a challenge of bark and sap,

Over twenty feet tall,

And that branch just low enough

To start my adventure off.




For a Friend, Insecurities

Why run from a half truth?

What does a fractured mirror show?

And hidden in your room,

Away from daylight,

Away from love,

A face finds a pillow,

A pillow soaked in tears,

Saying, “that’s not me,

It is not enough.”


Down the stairs

Through the screen door

Is a yard,

Is a fence,

Is a world.


What the mirror doesn’t show

What you fear is what you have to let go,

And the conversations in your head

about who you would rather be instead,

Are quieted to silence

As you pass down the street

And you look up to see kids on swings,

Then and there, a picture incomplete,

Because they have years to grow.

You look up to see a freckled face

And you see yourself for the first time.


Videos from My Family’s Thanksgiving 2010

Here are some candid videos from my trip home over Thanksgiving. It was really short, but these are some memories that I hold onto until i can get back up there again. I’ve been homesick the last few days, and these videos make me smile.  My family cracks me up. Us around the dinner table.   

Here is a video of my lil brother Josh talking about his bunny rabbit, and a typical reaction from Dave. Haha

My brother Mike stereotype of college professors. This never fails to make me laugh.

There you have it. My 3 days back up in thee Buckeye state over Thanksgiving.


Change of weather, A

Barren trees

Sway their jagged fingers

In the cold wind

The ground is wet

Half blanketed with rotting leaves.


Yet, this morning

The sun took a chance

And shined its meager rays

Through a break in the soot colored clouds

A humble reminder-spring is coming.

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