Tag: poetry

The Tiresome Job of Hiring Poems

a day in the life of a poetry-hiring professional


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.








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?


Pocket Lint


Pocket lint


Pocket lint is love:

cozy, secret, and inexplicable,

buried in every person’s pocket,

a puff of imagination.


Some do not care for it.

They flick it away,

emptying their pockets of feeling,

while others collect it,

stashing it close to their soul

where it can breathe and thrive.


It may not be beautiful, predictable, or welcome,

but I welcome pocket lint,

I welcome love.


Chapters from Guilt, Beans, and Broken Bones




Chapters from Guilt, Beans, and Broken Bones


In One we met on a kindergarten playground.

The colors were primary

and so were we.


In Two I stuck out my foot to trip you

just to see what you would look like

as you fell.

I didn’t want to know you had broken your arm.


In Three I sat practicing my crude handwriting

while you were borne off by a swarm of adults

to the nurse’s office.


In Four you came to school in a cast

and I came in a car,

neither healed nor whole.


In Five we sat across from each other

pretending to count beans to learn

our numbers.

All I learned was numbness.


In Six the teacher said it was snack time.

She said not to eat our beans by accident,

but I wanted to.

And tried to.

Which made you laugh.


In Seven I gave you my animal crackers,

and you let me doodle my forgiveness on your cast,

the stick-figure story

of guilt, beans, and broken bones.


Sitting on the Couch with Friends


Sitting on the Couch with Friends


What is to stop me

from planting my feet


on the wall and walking

straight into the sky?


I can walk from the couch

to the pantry, can’t I?


I need my Wheat Thins before

plopping down on the couch.


The Game needs fuel.

My friends can walk up walls.


Walls, pixel by pixel by brick

by brick by level by


level. Maybe they can walk on

clouds because they are


not sitting on a couch.

Maybe I am their


god—I will them to

walk with my power. Or


maybe I am their hamster, running

the wheel to fuel their progress.


Maybe they are reality

and I am not.


All my friends can walk up walls.


Window Dressing


Window Dressing


They spent days preparing the windows,

taking pains with the panes,

arranging the shrubs and skyline just so,

that the ivy might rustle

—to charm and not to irk—

in the periphery,

that the birds might be trained to fly

at such an altitude

as to please the aesthetically tempered mind.


The guest,

when he finally showed,

what did he care for windows?

All he wanted was

a soft place to rest his head,

to close his eyes,

and snore.