Poem of the Week: A Prayer for The Old Love’s New Love

Even though no one ever speaks of you,

and I do not dare ask

I imagine you at the mouth of each others ocean

I imagine that delirious wet happiness when you look at her

She is a gold star-fish skimming the reef of anticipation

The reason you no longer stare up at the sky after too many pints with

Hope swollen in your belly

With enough broken that if that swell were to deflate into a current of bubbles

You would sink or maybe

Disappear into the rise of gas that floats the surface

So transparent as if you had never existed at all

As if we had never imagined


You take your learned routes

The way home is a kiss from your mother on the forehead

A pet name whispered in the dark to accompany silence

That beautiful peace of breath that is familiar

A dream you once shared for


the one you almost let escape you

As if you’d been waiting for more than your years

And shamelessly blamed me for

All of them

All those empty waiting rooms filled up for a single shiny hope

Didn’t you know its like that for all of us?

As if you’d suffered alone

Alone suffers even the ants who are never without another one

So sorry would be worthless

I hope for you and pray for the ocean that it carries into other lives

That the tide will be enough

That she’ll be more than I could

Let you stop banking on shapeless dreams

Let her break the horizon into pieces you hold in your children’s perfect hands



Poem: NET ©2014

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Even For…

There’s not much space
Between the looking to and
Reflecting back
Would time have teeth if it were
Not for the past?
As in the present it seems
I’m never far from that fogged night
Of small fingers twirl
In the swell of fear

Where my father’s face smudged
With tears
Though incredibly
There are years between the
Next layers
Even for sea-foam green
Even for scars

Sometimes we are still
Standing in the new church
And I see the priests white sleeve
Stiff and considerate
Even for polyester
And maybe
For that tiny red wine stain
Above his lip
Wasn’t his smile rather purple?
Even for the day my brother
Was born or for sure

The story
About the time I almost caught
A priest on fire
Does anyone forget baptized?
Does anyone remember thirteen?
Doesn’t anyone recall
The smell of burnt hair
Overwhelming smoke
Frankincense dies too

Alone there is a part of me
That feels death on my tongue
Every time you lie next to me
And in your sleep speak
The future we
With love and some commotion
Even devotion has some
Takes some courage to tell
For me,
Even for forgetting

NET, ©2014

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Old Flame

You made me a script

An object

A thing to hide

In every room there’s always

an elephant or two

To get around

so it’s a good thing

I’m small enough

Good you know how

The act is disappearing

The art of hold my breath

The hero: Tell Me

And the magic?

Wait wait wait…

At least
That’s what you think

For now


NET, ©2014

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entry #4

Writer’s Journal/4

It’s become really obvious to me now – when I am about to hit a period of writers block. It’s not that I have some fear or anxiety about it either – I actually and very truly look forward to it now. No – seriously. I am not crazy (or any crazier than any other writer) I look forward to it because I know that what follows is something better. Having past the handful of these dark holes where a panicked frenzy consumed, I’ve come to the point where when it comes, I know why it’s happening, what it means, and what will follow. I can anticipate it. It’s an evolution really. For me, I can actually see the pattern where looking back lends insight into the milestones that were reached every time a period of writers block was overcome. Continue reading


Dear Father,

You built the fire that burned a house of ice
Turned words into lovers

In the sheets of your ancestors
Our history is a garden of sun licking glass


Believe the stars when they whisper
How a great man wears hearts

And sets tragedy to music
Even the rats would dance to

A diamond on the mountain of real
And hopes

And always the greatest failures
Because mistakes like that

Beckon treasure – the kind that turn the sea
The kind that make twelve-eight time signatures

What makes our blood speak
And your children

More than strong
Survive by unique

Overcome it all
You trace the eclipse of love with memories

Of the stories you told
And Thank God

Well thank whoever stands in the clouds
For the finger little hands hold

For birthday wishes
And laughter

And impeccable reason
And despicable overwhelming love

Maybe even the talk every Valentines Day
Since I was 12

For what you taught me
For everything I am

For the forever I believe in
Because you did

For believing at all
For something so small that it’s impossible

Not to say,

thank you

And like you notice – everything moves

And like you
Give it tears

Give it all you’ve got
Everything I am

Because of you

Because of what you’re not