National Poetry Month

April Fools Day.  Really? Does anyone else think it’s odd in some way that we start National Poetry Month out with April fools day.  Did you know that April’s National Poetry Month?  Some of you will read this with your guard up, because i’m guessing that most people don’t care that it’s national poetry month.  What does that mean anyway?

National Poetry Month.

For me, its a reminder of genre awesomeness.  Every year, I experience a little more poetry in my life because I’m more sensitive to it during the month of April.  This month, I’ll be posting regularly, writing everyday, reading poems, and watching as much video poetry as I can get my hands on.

Let the month begin.


Rain Moments of Today

Yesterday my kids wanted to go outside in the rain.  It was a treat for Gianna to wear her rain coat and boots.  I decided to capture the moments and then write the following poem.  The poem came out sadder than the moments of the day, but accurate still.  At some point my kids will grow up, and I’ll be telling the parents of young kids to cherish those moments before they go away.

Rain Moments of Today

I watch my kids discover puddles,
So I run with the camera to capture the joy
Of my boy, girl, boy, screeching in delight
At the sight, sound and feel that mud might reveal
As it shoots from concrete pools and tools its way inside
To where their feet reside.

Laughter wins as one discovers mud on his hands,
Joyously he understands that he’s getting away with something
Which is why I’m snapping pictures today
Before he gets away.

Poetry Unhexed

Poetry Unhexed
My ears ring hollow
Keeping me up at night with the need to write,
To compose,
To slate out words no one knows why
… at first.

But poems form and the screen fills with text
Poetry unhexed
Is given birth on the eve of morning.



Hear the audio of this poem here.

Does poetry makes sense?

Does poetry make sense? well… does taste count?

Often when reading words strung together, I’m left without the literal comprehension.  But I’m left feeling a little taste of something that makes it palatable.  Not that the whole poem wasn’t palatable, but just that there are morsels that get stuck between teeth.

Later when I’ve long forgotten about the poem.  That piece of poetry that I’ve had my tongue flicking against becomes loose, and a taste of poetry spits out when I talk.

There’s a chance that it will land on you.  Most people will brush it off.  Only a few will pick it off their shirt and put it in their own mouths.

Rocking the Ball Point

Still Rocking the Ball Point

I like the flavor of tapping tactile keys,
But when grooves aren’t grained in trees
And drumstick scrolls unroll to free
The static of needles instead of the Beatles of poetry,
I wonder if we’re losing the pressing pop of pages.

Linear indentations rivering dried ink
Are replaced with embedded links
Of mp3 curse,
The inverse
Of pulping poetry.

But like a still dawn lake outside of Woodstock
Where it doesn’t matter what you like,
An analog needle will strike
Down some lyrical talk.

When does a poem begin?

I wonder when a poem begins.  The title? the first line? The first thought on a subject by the poet?  Do the lines that get crossed out really begin the poems we write?  Sometimes.

Maybe a poem begins when a poet find that pulse that drives him to a line.  So if we ignore the pulse to write, we leave the poems we’ve never written to be unfinished.


Foiled Fish plans

Here’s a quick poem off of a prompt from Jessie Carty.


Foiled Fish plans

Frustration’s passing foil for a second time
As I round the grime of kool-aid stick
Sucking my attention away from rolls to rolls.
From strollers to strolls through the bread aisle once more
Though I’d been there before just 5 minutes ago.

A few aisles over, unobserved stacks of sheet metal
Sat on a shelf next to the window clings
and food saving things that were transparent.

I was transparent,
Stuck in a stare, unobserved next to an empty cart
That once cradled the promise of baked fish.
I had vanished completely when the store clerk grabbed the cart
To drive the squeaky wheel back to the front of the store.

My click-clack shoe-smack and the cart
had long since been apart
As he wheeled it past the woman buying frosted O’s
One aisle over from my invisible foiled fish plans.

Off of Me

Off of Me

I love you when you’re off of me.
Yes also when you’re sliming me
And griming me with hands now free
From sandwiches that stickily
Remain on tips invisibly
Until they print all over me
Which makes me love you off of me.



I want to sleep away today
Let my mind play past the last buzz
Of what was my alarm,
Play into sleeping keeping safety in my blanket.

I want to turn over.

I want to side with the sleep I relied on to keep
Last night like a snap of my fingers passing in a moment.
A fraction of who I want to be
While I dream of future me.