•October 16, 2019 • Leave a Comment

I still feel split
In two
And spilling
As if you left
Just yesterday
Took all my guts
As weaponry
You went to her
With spoils of me
But both agreed
Your hands were clean

Oh there are days
I stay up late
To sew and stitch
The seeping stops
Rough pieces fixed
Held by grit
And weathered thread
But I always fray
My skin seems not yet
Leather made

I am too soft
Sewn edges rip
The thread intact
But flesh is split
So I just dress
The emptied hollow
Halves of me
I shove my parts
In pants and sleeves
Cinch and button
Up and bleeding
My hands a mess
But form resembling
This encased undead
Shape of


Painting: Tired, by Christian Kroger


•October 4, 2019 • Leave a Comment

Stacks of baskets
And the clacking
Of trains
On their tracks
Once well-loved
Made of decades
Old rags
I am sad
For a moment
That I travel
This life loving
All manner
Of thises and thats
Without knowing
Whose hands
Spent time crafting
These traps
And then
When I am through
I so rarely
Look back


Painting by Tom Mc Nemar


•September 25, 2019 • Leave a Comment

Cinder blocks
Placed evenly
But painted over
Porous pieces
And rough cut
Edges smoothed
By layers slick
Enough and quickly
Sealed interior


picture taken by me

Public Mourning

•September 24, 2019 • Leave a Comment

But how
It stings when
All of your strength
Must be poured into that space
Inside where heaving tears might spill
So that those pulling empty places
Are for a moment filled with grit
And sheer force of concrete will
As you face a flying world
With a wide dry smile
While in the corner
Of your eyes
Oh but how
It stings


Painting: 1960’s Airport by Paul Mitchell


•September 12, 2019 • Leave a Comment

I sat with death
And dying
As I cried
For quite awhile
My sobs
Were lost for
Stillness hard
To reconcile

– me

My Bracelet (repost)

•September 11, 2019 • Leave a Comment

Today I wear a bracelet
Which is eighteen years old
I wear it this day every year
For living moments that it holds

It was made for us in gratitude
For being there and holding up
The families of those we lost too soon
That horrid day in Washington

Crafted by hand in all three colors
They once were bright without a mark
Each year the colors fade a bit
And the beads become more scarred

At first I made an effort
To keep it quite pristine
But after many years I realize
Value is not in keeping clean

The dirt and scratches simply show
Eighteen years of life we’ve lived
We’re not defined by cracks and aging
But by what of ourselves we give

Dear bracelet, you’ll be on my wrist
On this day every year
Until one of us lets go that thread
Life well worn out for those not here





I repost this every year on this day, it’s not the best poem technically…but that doesn’t really matter today.

A picture of the bracelet made, and given to me, by a volunteer at the Pentagon days after September 11, 2001 to thank those of us who escorted families to view the site where their loved ones died that horrific day. I am proud to have stood there with them, to have wept with them, to have heard stories about their loved ones, to have been present, available. It is one of my saddest, but proudest, days in the military.


•September 8, 2019 • Leave a Comment

Like an incessant itch
On the back of my neck
From a tag cut too rough
But sewn into the seam
Of my new softest sweater
So too is my need
To move way too quick
And not feel all these things


painting: Sweater Painting by Jantina Peperkamp

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