my daughter when I die at the moment of my death I will cease to be a gemstone wrapped in layers of pastry baked for a lifetime to have those brittle sediments crushed then scattered into the invisible wind of sentience
my daughter well you might cry because that voice that made you laugh comforted you teased and tickled to the point of madness is truly gone but that thing which made the voice and drove those tickling fingers will still be left
my daughter when you die we’ll meet again in a form or fashion neither of us can anticipate two artists in love with each other meeting at last there is nothing more frightening or beautiful I can conceive
a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
Kick stand up at eight, two lane west to set me free Throttle through the gears, now it’s just Ester and me Relax down into the machine, the breeze blowing across my face Worry and troubles disappear, my mind is
In a way I’m jealous of the blind man and he’s jealous of me, for the world he will more than likely never see. The beautiful mountains and the palm trees, the beautiful blue wide open seas. The bright blue
Mid this commemoration, Of annihilation Of inclinations And pursuits, My soul revels In these fervent goodbyes. The stiff and the spiritless, Scream my name. They exult and glorify This celebration. Agony, Candid in it’s certainty, Leaves always, To re appear
They minded their conversation, The ants that came marching in. Extra sugar. A little less cream. The foam from their latte circled their mouths, Disfigured steam still rising from their small cups. A light comfort found after a hard day’s