To My Friend Who Advises to Shatter Something to Pieces

It’s not that there is not merit to

what you are saying.

Sure; there is certainly satisfaction

in breaking something apart,

reveling in the tiny fragments

that scatter where it once 

claimed whole.

Creation, even, 

in destruction.

But if you take an egg,

throw it with all of your strength,

and watch the soggy insides

drip and ooze against the concrete

where it met its demise

so suddenly,

you cannot take back your action.

Similarly, with your suggestion:

take a bat and smash it!

You have defied the first Creator

of your now beaten, 

broken object

that was once a vase, 

a lamp, a teapot, a glass,

never to be as it once was.

There is no coming back,

no repair you could possibly offer,

amount of glue, or time, or energy,

to give back to the first artist

who sat painting, painstakingly,

threw on the wheel, handbuilt,

or blew with heat and fire at their brow,

the sweat and blood worked into 

their art piece,

nor do you honor the first owner

who saw it as something that might

bring color and light into their

home, or coffee, how it matched

some part of their own soul and 

called to them.

It is a statement, to be sure,

and granted, I do not take to

any theory of broken windows

or juvenile crime from your 

emotion that you deigned art

the very moment a wooden

bat connected with a fragile

figment, standing in your

way of violent rebellion (it is, afterall,

in our nature to do such things),

but I must protest.

What is it, exactly, 

that you wish to state?

That you can break something?

Did you believe that you could not?

That no object lasts forever?

Were we not already aware?

Or is it a metaphor for the fragility 

of life, a moment taken to

destroy what took hours to 

design, seal, and paint?

What is the point of that?

If you took these pieces, and made

a mosiac, or pictures for a show,

slowed down time to watch that moment

preserving it on film forever,

but I don’t feel that is what you are doing,


You destroy it for the sheer joy

of destroying something,

and nothing more than that.

I can not abide this.

I won’t.

Heal Yet, Flowers

Oh! But I did not see you there,
and I have traipsed across your
petal faces, and how rude of me.
I cannot undo my stepping,
the breaking of your slender
necks, a snapping of my
clumsy step.

You’ve been thirsty under a merciless noon sun, held through
the biting frosts, and despite your
tribulations, you have not
succumb to time or weather,
yet I have done a great disservice to
you, parting from the paved trail.

I can help you stand a bit.
Lean your sagging heads against
your sisters’ leafy arms and rest.

Heal yet, flowers.
Be well again.
May my treason be undone.
Bless each one of you,
unopposed and unprotected.

Words Previously Unsaid to the Mountains

I miss the verdant overgrowth that took apart the roads and houses,

where simple flowers, vines, and trees, would take back from usurping man.

Water rushed in great expanse, though from the peaks it trickled down

as sun would heat the sleeping earth to streams, and brooks, and rivers,

finally cascading down, roaring as the waterfall, mightier than any manufactured fountain.

The muggy morning never failed to raise the plumes of blue;

the smoky fog of water lazily escaping dampened dirt.

I was allowed there as a visitor, and offered place to slumber,

but for all the richest greenery, I missed my yellowed fields.

I missed the great flat grassy plains, but more so missed my sisters,

my mother, father, aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandmother.

I could not commit to mountains, fresh air, winding trails,

and yet with my mind made, my choice I still consider.

Could I have been happier in Cade’s Cove than my Hill Country?

Could I give up my prized Panhandle for Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge?

And could all the tempted black bears, who came to sample candy apples,

persuade my indecisive heart to leave the armadillos?

I have often thought my butterfly to be solely the Monarch,

but Swallowtail has given me much thought, lately.

The fireflies that swarmed the summer lit our night anew

twinkling there in the midst of us, tiny stars just within our reach.

As I rethink my hasty departure from the Smokey Mountains,

I question if they’d let me back, if only to steep in wonder.

First Day of Astronomy Class

As a child, my mother had recanted
memory of a time when she had
been quiet enough a bird
had landed on her finger.
I had done the same,
curious to see if I could copy
her success in stilling my mind,
and to my amazement
a bird did set near enough.
The fluttering of the wings that day
matched my youthful heart
and made my imagination
soar with lofty thoughts.

So much older am I now than then and,
I had no intention,
as I descended the stairs,
Winter biting at my ankles,
to my classroom
in the basement,
of catching any small bird.
The threshold barely welcomed me
as science is a precise art
and rusty poets do not humbly
figure for the brightness of stars.

I quickly found a desk, I felt,
was most calming to me,
and watched as new classmates
filed in with anxious faces,
finding space where they could,
each caught in their own tune.
This one boy was more exacting
as he calculated the perfect seat,
our gaze collided with one another,
and he procured a fetching smirk.
Directly, he would come my way,
and light the seat beside me
stealing one more look upon my face,
as I pretended not to notice.

As we would start our starry lesson,
I beheld only my pen,
but I would catch him watching me
as I took notes and learned.
What beauty of the universe we observed
thousands of galaxies,
with colors more vivid than any painting,
more systems than could ever be named.
Forgive my asking, Mon Cherie,
but why should you attend to me?

My bird, I would not linger here,
the universe is vast and open,
yet of all the places you could choose,
you chose to settle here.
Even brightness of the moon,
and sun with magnitudes of negative numbers,
would not illuminate the heavens
enough to show my wandering eyes
to behold your fragile frame
and startle at your feathers.


This blog is intended to allow those, who care to hear about my progress in writing, to see into my life.

This week I have been working on a poem about a moment shared between me and a friend of mine. At the time, I really had strong feelings for this person, and it was a beautifully strange moment. I can’t quite capture the feeling of the moment, and what I really want to do is to illustrate what I experienced.

Eye Contact:

I hadn’t thought you’d be here,

invading the library

halfway through my research paper

you came through the door.

I successfully avoided your glances,

but even pages began to whisper.

My eyes strained for a breath,

and fell upon on your blithe face.

You perceived my gaze from a distance,

returned it.

held it there as ransom;

unable to avert,


A few moments silence,

an effervescent feeling

an illuminating smile.

If eyes are windows to the soul,

you are incandescent.