You give it to me,

I give it to you.

Then why do

these 10 year olds

think they don’t have to

give it to teachers?

I don’t understand.

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Deep, Dark…, Secret is out!

Deep, Dark…, Secret is out!

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Day 11 – Nat’l Poetry Month

I’ve been ruminating on this idea for a couple of days and decided to put it to paper tonight.

Piece by Piece 


Piece by piece, I had fallen apart

one bad choice after another,

flinging paint all over my canvas

with no regards for my mother.

Until one Sunday, I reformed my life – 

laying it at the cross and

recommitting my heart – 

renewing my relationship with Christ.

He took my marred canvas

with paint splatters and wild strokes,

and set it upon the easel again

giving rise to all manner of hope.

I was pleasantly surprised

at the amount of trash painted upon the canvas,

in colors so dreadful and dreary

I cringed at the amount of sadness.

But just then, He took my hand

and swept a stroke very wide

effacing a large portion of my life

I could only hope to hide.

My magnum opus took shape

in a very dense timeframe,

causing me to doubt His help

which only caused more shame.

Then gently He began to guide my brush,

again righting my course,

infusing hope throughout my being

settling me to the core.


“You are beautiful, beyond compare,”

He would whisper in my ear,

causing me both pain and comfort

fearing someone would my life’s-work smear.

Encouraging me over and over

I began to believe His comfort,

deflecting assaults from left and right –

I began to live triumphant.

Now only He knows my end-of-life’s painting

with all of the blobs and wrong colors,

but at least I know the one guiding me

as we paint this work – piece by piece, together.

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Deer in a Building

I entered with a curiosity

led by my nostrils 

and open door screen.

Where does this lead

as I scratch at this thing – 

I really need to feed.

What’s over here

that’s a bright light I see

something smells delicious.

Ohh! Who are you?

Don’t scream at me

I just want to feed.

What are these things….

wow… they open up

oooo that feels soft

what?! I’m moving! I’m moving! Stop! Stop!

Ouch! That hurts! Don’t hit that again.

Oohh no, they’re screaming again.

What about you? Do you have food?

No? But this stuff, oh wow, that t a s t e s, yuck! Puuh!!

Never try that white stuff again.

Look! I can spin. Whoazers!

That doesn’t feel good.

Note to self, don’t ever spin in one of those again.

What is that? I can see for miles and miles. Damn!

What is out there? Whoa! That hurt!

What is out there? Whoa! I can’t seemed to get out!

Why can I NOT get out?! That hurt! OUCH!!! 


I want out!!!! There! Out there! Now!

I want out! Now!!! Let. Me. Out!

What was that? That stung? I WANT….. o  u  t 

W  h  y     c  a  n      I       n    o     t       g     e      t         o       u ……….  

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Day 4 – Nat’l Poetry Month.

It’s in the works… after work (first day back from Spring Break with students) and practice for an upcoming gig – I’m pooped! I started today’s NaMoWrPo prompt, but it’ll have to go out tomorrow. Good night Vegas! See you bright and early.

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Day 3 of Nat’l Poetry Month 

I stand before you today – with bleeding ears and a gently weeping guitar – reading this elegy / about a chord whose only sin was being played at the wrong apogee. His compadres knew his inclination for flair / and who can forget the performance when he let loose at the wrong time while the bombs where bursting in the air. But nothing can compare to the moment he did impair a thousand ears. After being warned repeatedly to watch the conductor, he seared in the listeners minds that glaringly dissonant sound, time.. after time.. after time.. Qflarp..! Qflarp..! Qflarp..! I am still in shock that the audience was able to forfeit their way out the doors after the eminently dissonant sound faded to glory…. and the fat lady stood in horror. So it is today, with a resonanting harmony of a thousand voices / that we repose this most dissonant chord with condolences. Goodnight Qflarp, we hope to NEVER hear you again.

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Day 2 of National Poetry Month

Here is a poem written in the form of a recipe:

A Recipe for Grace

Crowds cry out in anguish

how could he be made well,

he climbed up a tree for goodness sake –

his future to foretell.

“Back away from the scourge,”

every soul here knows,

the only time you’d see him

is cruely – tax laws he’d impose.

“Come down here Zacchaeus,

I will stay at your house today,

for I came to seek the lost

no longer will you go astray.”

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