High and Mighty

I’ll be standing on top of the world

Ruling over the petty emotions below.

Ordering them.

Commanding them.

Having utter control.

And then,

A rebellion will rise

And suddenly



It pulls me


Yanks me from the high pedestal

I rule from.

Taking me from my high and mighty horse.

And suddenly they’re in control.

The war inside me rages

And all those petty emotions

Now rule over me.

A Fickle Emotion

Love is quite a fickle emotion.

It’ll find us at the worst of times,

It’ll find us at the best of times.

And at that moment of being found,

We can only guess at how we’ll be bound.

For the emotion is not only fickle.

It’s all consuming.

It’s a roller coaster.

It’s a never ending ride

That hardly has a care for what you




Over the bumps.

Over the mountainous hills.

Over the ragged, stormy sea

And through the meadows where the wind

Rolls over the hills on a clear, sunny


It’ll drag you along,

It’ll force your heart to sprint

While all you can hear is

Th-thump, Th-thump, Th-thump.

For love is quite a fickle emotion.

It’ll drive even the best of us mad.

We question ourselves,

We wonder what could have been


We over think the smallest of things.

And while this all goes on

It continues to pull us along.

Playing us like marionettes in a

Shakespearean play where all our world

Is but a play,

And we the simple characters to be,



Laughed at

By the peers that gather round to watch

For their own petty




Who’s to say what’s what

In this fickle emotion called love?

And while we’re dragged along

And while we’re being watched

We all gladly struggle.

We readily get played

To a tune only we can


Because what a



Beautiful thing

The fickle emotion of love


In This Life

In this life

Hesitation, anger, worry

In this life

Fear, confusion, war

In this life

These regrets run wild

Destroying everything

In this life

There are things called dreams

In this life

Children laugh, happiness flows,

A helping hand

In this life

Things are too short

Let dreams run wild

In this life


  1. Pitter patter of
    The raindrops on the rooftops
    The storm is now here
  2. The wave draws nearer
    The end of a semester
    A work tsunami
  3. The sound of people
    Chitter chatter in the shop
    The sweet taste of tea
  4. Wake up to black sky
    A yawn trapped in my throat. Well,
    Dark mornings are here
  5. Try to concentrate
    Talk, Talk, Think, Talk, Talk, Talk, Think
    That’s enough for now.

A Single Step

There’s something strange and addicting about that new apartment smell. I’ve only known it a few, sweet times in my life and one not so sweet time. It’s a thrilling mixture of sweat, hard work, excitement, and nervous jitters.

I gaze into the large open space, watching as the movers lug around boxes, taking some into the kitchen, others down the hall leading to the master and guest bedrooms. My eyes travel down to the doorway. I’ve yet to take that last step inside. The step that will end one chapter and begin another. It’s silly thinking that has the corner of my mouth twitching as I tuck loose black strands behind my ear.

“Hey, how’re they doing in here?” Garry’s arm drapes over my shoulders, pulling my gaze from the doorway. His eyes follow the workers moving about the apartment.

“Nothing’s broken yet, so I’d say they’re a-ok in my book.”

Garry chuckles and my smile is no longer a small twitch of the lips but whole. I look around him for the third member of our family but I find him alone.

“Where’s Dani?”

His smile falls away, and a rigidness sets over his body as the light and playful atmosphere that had been around us evaporates. The sunshine water falling in through the tan curtains no longer seems as bright as it was a moment ago.

“Dani’s going to be staying with a friend.”

My brows knit together. “What do you mean, ‘staying with a friend’? She’s old. The sooner we bring her here, the better. She can get used to the space.”

He sighs and my stomach twists as the fine hairs at the base of my neck stand on end. The sigh holds everything as flashbacks flood my thoughts. A man’s sigh, a woman’s pitying look, apologies that held nothing but irresponsibility and a child’s disappointment.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this Abs,” he says.

“What?” I flinch at how harsh the word comes out, but it does little to stop me from moving away from him. Another step away from the apartment.

“I’m getting rid of Dani. She won’t be coming, there’s just no way we can-”

“Are you serious? Getting rid of her? Garry, she’s not some-some-“

“Animal? She’s a cat, Abby, I doubt it’ll really matter to her.”

“She’s just a child, she’ll get over it.”

“I doubt she’ll even remember this.”

“How can you know that?”


He reaches for me, but I take another step back, arms curling around my waist for comfort; for strength. I was trained in this for years as a child.

“You’ve had Dani for years, Garry. Of course she’ll know.”

If you can so easily get rid of her, what does that say about me? Am I just as easily left behind?

“I’m sorry, but we’ve changed our minds.”

I give my head a hard shake, forcing the phantom voice out.

“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

I look in at the workers, their movements slow now as they listen in. My eyes fall to the doorway; the single step that would have changed it all.

“Sorry, Garry, I don’t think this will work out.”

How does it feel now?

I walk away from the apartment, never looking back, only forward.

August Sky

Every time we go in

And see the

Night sky. August

Screams and the green slivers of grass

Tickle the flesh. We’re stuck

And left to stand by

Our lonesomes. The

World is expansive, but quite like we’re the last

Ones on Earth. Rays

Dance across the sky; of

Mourning stars and sun

Imposters. We are there, the

Only witnesses. Cracked

Minds like a chipped teacup.

Thoughts dribble out like screams.

A “Golden Shovel” Poem with the use of Etheridge Knight’s Haiku “In the August grass Struck by the last rays of sun The cracked teacup screams.”

A Question for You

What do you think you’re doing?

What do you think you’re doing?

What do you think you’re doing?

What do you think you’re doing?

What do you think you’re doing?

What do you think you’re doing?

What do you think you’re doing?

What do you think you’re doing?

What do you think you’re doing?

What do you think you’re doing?

What do you think you’re doing?

The Window

“You wife’s passed away.”

The cigarette that’d been dangling from my lips finally takes that final leap, falling until it hits the stone walkway. My brown-eyed gaze travels with it, taking in the black ashes speckling the light tan of the sidewalk cement. I’d been on my way home from the school, my last class having just let out.

A large stack of essays and an old, worn copy of The Raven is waiting for me at home. That, and my wife. The wife that is always waiting at home, standing in our closet of a kitchen, gazing out the dirt encrusted window; or, perhaps, she’d be there, sitting in her scarred wooden rocking chair, looking out the front window, egg shell white drapes held back by a rusted screw she’d put in the wall. If she isn’t there, I’d find her upstairs, in our bedroom where the clothing is always littering the floor in haphazard heaps, and the sheets are rolled and balled at the end of the bed from the previous night’s sleep. She wouldn’t care about that, the mess seemingly invisible as she gazed out the window.


I thought as I reach into the navy pockets of my suit.

I supposed she was never there. Not for a long time.

“Let me guess,” I say, as I pull the crushed packet from my pocket, taking the last cigarette from its container; I made a mental note to buy more on the way home. I cover the thin, bringer of death with my hand as it dangles from between my lips where its comrade had lived moments ago. The flick of my lighter echoes between the cop and me. “The neighbor saw her hanging from the window.”

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