My Poetry: The Poems, The Art

Collected Works and Poetic Learning

Latest from the Blog

Birds are like poems against the sky, surreal mist surrounds trees

We’ve Run Out of Some Paints

I’d paint the page with sunflowers and marigolds,
But Wordsworth’s nature is long in its grave.

We have forgotten the cold mountain stream,
The little birds in the blueberry bush,
The worms wiggling beneath their hungry beaks,
And the sound of the forest is deafening for us
As the chainsaw’s roar over heavy machinery.
For us nature is a conversation,
A metaphor for human care and change,
and a political questioning of the trees
in search for meaning when we bludgeon a rose
and all the beauty that it has stood for.

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New Beasts

Unlike all the beasts we have known,
murders, thieves, and miscreants
there now arises a wickedness
that cannot be measured in neat units
or fit into convenient little molds.

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Where did they go
when the capstone was finally fitted
and the labor contracts were off in the garbage?

Where did they go
when the Taj Mahal had absorbed its last marble
and the laborers were without their paychecks?

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The Quality of Being Afraid

When I think of the old providence,
the land where gods were megaliths
and human wants were always gone
the moment the chief called for blood,
I think that our ancestors had known
that beating hearts were a pestilence
to be separated from the chest
before the plague had taken hold
of more than just their overlords.

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I Wanted the World

I wanted the world, and I found it,
I poked and I prodded with certain glee.

What I had found was youthful and free,
A boyish desire for wild
And wildernesses within me,
But the world was wicked and cheap
And myself so dumb and naïve
That I had found pills and gold drink.

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Consuming Us

All beauty has been taken.

The natural is no longer allowed
To be as it is without filter.

The body is no longer a temple;
It’s a canvas on which we paint.

The soul is relegated to metaphor
And no longer allowed to spread
to the hearts of others.

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Tom MacDonald The Musical Dragon

Let me tell you ’bout Tom, the musical dragon,the muse of angels and the fire of hella rapper who’s not here to sell you xanex,music that doesn’t conflict with the truth.Keep calm, stand tallthe gloves have come off and roof is on fireand we’re all still alive, just barely breathin’.Didn’t know what we needed was a musical dragon,didn’t know it was me he’d be savingdidn’t know there was anything that still meant somethin’,and so I explode with the rage of a demon. How dare youshort this guy, when it’s you that he’d be savin’.Keep calm, stand tall, the glove have…

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To smoke

In the hay fieldsthe horse hooves hammer home;he rides on haunted hills,on hell, on a black horse,on my last breath as handswrapped around a throatand the cancer, surelyto come if I continue.

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Found in Notes on phone

Beneath the waves a gyre turns it’s gaze.Awake, at last, that sleeping giant is loosedonce more upon the world. Anarchy is the rulethat sets the center askew; the antichrist is surely near.The shooter, his rifle, is surely at hand;surely there’s some terrorist plan,surely the boogeyman has come to bearthose Freddy claws and leave us turning stillamidst out night of timid sleep and fevered chill.

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Tears to Pay

What matters if we stop these bells,
—the toll and knell of guns and bombs,
the monstrous groan of metal wheels
the murmur of a boy gurgling on hope
before his breath is smothered out,
if we cannot quench the thirst of bureaucracy?

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The Ponzi and the Poor

I know that I usually post poetry, but as of yet I haven’t quite the words for the topic that I am about to tackle as least not in the form of a poem. Nevertheless, I do feel compelled to write. The year was 1776, the Declaration of Independence was signed, and a symbol of American freedom was born. In that document written about the past the authors took the time to speak to the future, and it is these few lines that I believe are more telling about were we are than almost anything that I have ran across.…

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Please Don’t Send Flowers

He passed away today—or was it days ago,I have not the strength to tell.Anymore, the rose’s petal’s saywhat my words could never:don’t send me more flowers—please don’t affix a card to the lilies,because I have relived his deathwith each wilting lilyand cried more often then a rose in molt.

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