Snow Sprites {music}

Snow Sprites At Play In The Trees

Here is the sheet music for a piano piece I composed called “Snow Sprites”. It is moderately difficult, but not too hard. Click the link for the sheet music pdf link.

Snow Sprites [PDF]


Happy Winter!


Snow Sprites {poem}

snow sprite1


Snow Sprites


The snow sprites came down the mountain at night.

Wispy and chill, wispy and chill.

They danced to the left and they danced to the right.

Wispy and chill, wispy and chill.

The flowers the dipped in caskets of frost.

Wispy and chill, wispy and chill.

They sparkled the rivers and sledded across’t.

Wispy and chill, wispy and chill.

They nipped at the stars and sang Luna Lu.

Wispy and chill, wispy and chill.

They traced on the windows with crystalized dew.

Wispy and chill, wispy and chill.

They sprinkled their mischief until it was dawn.

Wispy and chill, wispy and chill.

They swooped up the mountain and then they were gone.

Wispy and chill, wispy and chill.






There is nothing aggressive in a submarine sandwich.

Just provolone, lettuce, turkey, and tomatoes.

Mustard and mayonnaise.

That’s how Mom makes them.


I heft the small battleship of a sandwich

and sink my kindergarten teeth shut

around its hull.


This is not a submarine sandwich—

This is a stale sea-sponge.

And it drops back to my plate.


“Mom. Did you put ketchup on my sandwich?”



The electro-magnetic taste of blood

tempts my tongue to investigate,

but Mom is already on scene,

picking up a ruddy pearl from my plate.


“Here. Take this paper towel,

you silly, little jack-o-lantern.”


She grins.


I smile like Swiss cheese

as Mom fills a glass with water

to rinse off my first escaped incisor.


The Timewatcher


The Timewatcher sits at the helm of the clock

knotting our prayers and our dreams in the dark,

whispering wishes where willing-ones walk,

spanning and spinning the spinning-spent spark.


Knotting our prayers and our dreams in the dark,

He sits as the sentinel searching in space,

Spanning and spinning the spinning-spent spark,

pacing the blessings and blessing the pace.


He sits as the sentinel searching in space,

weaving a dreamwork of graces and drought

pacing the blessings and blessing the pace-

seconds as lanterns in-flickering out.


Weaving a dreamwork of graces and drought,

whispering wishes where willing-ones walk,

seconds as lanterns in-flickering out,

The Timewatcher sits at the helm of the clock.


Breath Mint {prose poetry}


Breath Mint


I unlaminate by back from the booth seat—it’s just like a 50’s diner to be so—clingy, more false than its elderly patients’, excuse me, clients’ teeth. It’s just so jukebox sterile. “Have a mint on your way out,” the hostess smiles, too much whipped cream on the strawberry malt. The mint bowl is half-full of emptiness. My hand hovers, remembering the sensation of a peppermint crowbar prying open my sinuses, my tongue neutralizing powdery skin. It is suspicious, the powder. Dust from the counter, the calcified perspiration of candy decay, the undercooked residue of decadence. Did this mint sit in the kitchen with the hands that massage raw chicken, with the fake eyelashes of my waitress, with the extremities of the restroom plumbing system? Poison. Nearly French for ‘fish’, but missing the extra snake. It would be so easy to murder me with an arsenic breath mint, but I trust this mint not to hurt me, to lay a spore in my stomach, so I pop it into my mouth, easy as a cannonball into a cool summer pool where it will swim about until it realizes that it is deteriorating, dissolving. I am the missing snake.




This is a piece that I improvised on the spot at the Henry B. Plant Museum in Tampa, Florida. I tried to capture the architecture and aura of place. I hope you enjoy it. The above picture is of the Plant Museum which is part of the University of Tampa, Florida today.


Top Secret


Top Secret


On this night is come to you,

Packaged up with care,

Enveloped here,

Nice and clear,

Messages for you.


Exactly what? You want to know,

Can I have to say?

A secret note.

Read what I wrote.

Eventually you will know.


Folded, hidden, secretly

Underneath these lines.

Lines that hide,

Lo, I tried…

You should read me vertically.


This is Revolution



This is Revolution


It’s time we stood up

to all those naysayers

who sit down.

Tell me who’s right:

the peanut butter or the jelly?

Lobsters! All of them.

Snapping like overstrung rubber-bands.

Guess what? It’s time to show them

who’s got the best aim with a rubber-band.

Pour on that vitamin D.

Drown them in sunlight so deep

they’ll be screaming “Trix are for kids”

before they ever fall asleep.

And when they do, they better pray,

pray we brought our erasers,

‘cause I can draw a smiley face

in permanent ink on a cardboard box

shorter than any of you.

Are you with me?


Take your thumbtack to the world

And sing the song of freedom.

Staple it to the ground.

Remember: A gourd well-grown is a soup in the fire.

Love this like tinfoil;

Let it broil,

and when it’s cooked,

smell the grass

and know that




This is Revolution.


Out to Lunch {Flash Fiction}


Out to Lunch

“Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Randal?” the waitress asked.

“No thanks ma’am,” he said, “I got some juice boxes out in the truck.”

The waitress clicked her pen into her apron pocket and forced a smile while three boys in flannel shirts at a nearby table raised eyebrows at each other. That old man in jeans and work boots couldn’t possibly be the Mr. Randal. That old creep never came into town.

The three boys fell silent when they heard the bell over the door jangle as Mr. Randall returned to his table through the empty restaurant with a six-pack of juice boxes.

They couldn’t hide their silence and neither could he as he slurped the bottom of his juice box. Setting the empty box down on the table, Mr. Randal turned to the three boys.

“Did I ever tell you about the time them crickets chewed a picture of the Mona Lisa herself into my wheat field?” The three boys shook their heads no, so Mr. Randall launched into story.

He was just finishing another story, one about the time his rooster decided to crow at sunset, when the tired waitress returned to take his order.

“Yes, I’ll have them kid’s chicken nuggets on an adult-sized plate. The old gizzard can’t handle more than six or seven nuggets at a time anymore.” Mr. Randal patted his stomach and the waitress hurriedly jotted down his order.

Mr. Randal kept on telling stories to the boys as the mid-afternoon haze crept in through the windows, even when the waitress brought his food. With nothing to do in the empty restaurant, the waitress sat down at a table in the corner pretending to read Gone with the Wind. Soon though, Mr. Randal’s home-cooked stories filled the air and she gave up the pretense of reading, undid the string of her apron, and settled into her chair with her eyes closed, listening to a story about the time his neighbor’s pig jumped the fence on Halloween and chased away the trick-or-treaters.

The waitress chided herself for dozing off on the job, but no one would care. The restaurant was still empty. She stood up, stretching her arms and moved to clear the tables. As she was clearing Mr. Randal’s table she discovered a napkin with the word TIP scrawled on it alongside an unopened juice box. The waitress just shook her head and smiled, tucking the juice box into her apron pocket for later. What a story to share.


The General Slocum Slough


The S.S. General Slocum was a passenger steamboat that caught fire and sank in the East River in New York. The disaster caused the largest loss of life in New York until the terrorist attacks of 9-11 nearly 100 years later.

Inspired by the story of the S.S. General Slocum, composer Charles Ives wrote an incredibly descriptive and unnerving piece of music to tell the story of the disaster. As you listen to the piece, you hear the sounds of the party aboard the ship, conflicting sounds from the shore and otherships until the boat crashes and sinks. He does this by having multiple melodies going on at once in different keys, which adds to the conflict and sense of impending catastrophe.

One of the other pieces that is referenced in this poem include Debussy’s “La cathédrale engloutie” (literally “The Swallowed Cathedral”) which tells the story of a Gothic cathedral which rises up out of the ocean (or as I like to picture it, a swamp) and then sinks back down. See the link below.

The third piece that is referenced is “The Flight of the Bumblebee” by Rimsky-Korsakov. The title is pretty self-explanatory.

And now for the poem:


The General Slocum Slough


It’s not that I don’t love

the commotion of The General Slocum,

but it is rather slow in coming

and jarring to the ear and running

rather longer than it ought to run.

Ought to run away.

Take the fortissimo

and scram.

With The Flight of the Bumblebee

and La Cathédrale Engloutie

as limits,

reaching for futurity

without compromising.


Desensitization is not

decisively  beautiful;

it is tacitly futile,

like drinking frozen castor oil.

Or not.

It is the General Slocum slough.



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