Category: Life Poems

Inspirational, picture-painting, and deep poems


Write letters filled with meaning, Something truly worth the reading, Words that wriggle with repeating On the cold and dying page. Paint a picture worth the seeing, A creation worth the being, Hold the moment back from fleeing On into the endless age. Something truly … Continue reading Letters



The village people knew

it was not a matter of if,

but a matter of when,

the tower would fall,

its wind-bleached columns

buckling at the knees

under the crushing weight of

its lofty belfry, which looked

out over the Piazza dei Miracoli

—the square of miracles.


Having stood in sturdy silence

for centuries, the spiral staircase

stretched its spine

enjoying the pop

of each stony vertebra until

the seventh story struck the ground

in a glorious, groaning backbend.


The nearby Cathedral of Pisa

didn’t approve of the acrobatics.

No self-respecting campanile

dreams of calisthenics.

What would the village people think?


But it didn’t matter what

the they would think.

With grating blocks in shifting stacks,

and stairs and capitals

and fissuring cracks,

the dust flew up,

then settled down, there

in pieces all around,

the parts of Pisa

on the ground.


Peace and Pisa on the ground.


Painting With




Painting With


I don’t like the yellow wind—

all hot and rough, brittle,

fond of sawdust and spinning.

I much prefer the blue wind

that caresses and smooths,

sweeping away the sweat

and the afternoon.

The white wind keeps me up

at night, echoing in my

teeth and unsettling my bones

like salt from the north.

But, the black wind has my respect.

It moves methodically

the wheel of the seasons,

steering a massive rumble reckless

as the other winds bow in silence.

Then it gathers fragments,

scoops them into piles, and

draws closed the bag of time

spun out, till it all but disappears.









They say the walls can feel

the hands that built them,

hewed them out of stone,

that the stones remember the songs

they sang when they thought

they were alone, and

nobody was listening.


They remember the way they

cursed when they accidentally

chipped off too much, or

hammered a thumb red.


The stones even remember the

sun and the moon,

the way it felt to be

illuminated from above.


The walls don’t speak much,

but when they do they

carry prayers.


When a hymn floats up

from the assembled below

they pass it on,

and pass it on.


The stones know that

when you’re praying in the forest

when nobody’s around

the trees may not notice,

but heaven hears the sound.


The walls say the hands can feel

the hands that built them.

Hands and walls

Like echoes in a cathedral.









built it


three                    He

sides and                   said it

three corners.        ought to work.

So                               my                             and

I pieced                        own 3                     dubbed it

   Together                       vertices                             Try-angle.







When heartbeats

cease to make


when eyes turn to


when hands

only count

as abaci,

and when minds act

as balances

weighing heavy things

who can’t fly

away free

in the





Note: I am currently studying life, both from the scientific and the literary point of view. In the Lithuanian language there are two words that translate into “life”. The first, gyvybė [gee-VEE-beh], describes the being alive aspect of life—biologically functioning, blood-pumping, moving, eating, sleeping, aliveness. The second, gyvenimas [gee-VAN-ih-mus], describes the living aspects of life—how you are doing today, hopes, dreams, problems, relationships, livingness. This poem was born thinking about the possible opposites of both of these words.





Bring us fire. Bring us light.

Bring us knowledge. Steer us right.

Good and evil, feed us fruit,

Tempt us with a parachute.

Crash and burn, burn and char,

scourge us hence, near and far.

We will curse thee. We will rage.

We will right upon the page.

We will open up the box

before Pandora even knocks.

Bring us fire. Bring us light.

Hide the garden in the night.

Fashion raincoats from a cloud.

Make the shyest rowboat proud.

Flood our knowledge. Soak the scars.

Wash away the idle stars.

Bring us fire. Bring us light.

Bring us wisdom in the fight.

Prometheus, attend the sky,

send the word as owls fly.

Feast the wolves upon our wrong

and save the dying Dodo’s song.

We may smile, we may sigh,

and though we may attempt to try,

this none can dodge until he die:

that learning, yearning, burning Why?