Evening Poems: Blue Ink, Red Eyes

Washing washing 

All the ink  

Scrubbing scrubbing  

A porcelain sink 

Rinsing rinsing  

Dont stop and think 

Wash away 

All your fears 

Did you hear that? 

Footsteps near. 

Falling, falling, 

Through a crack you peer 

Writing, writing 

Your confession down, 

Jotting everything  

With a frown. 

In words and ink 

You do drown. 

But Looking down 

Blue is red. 

Onto the carpet 

They all bled. 

Spatters on 

The wall and bed.  

All you have done 

The blood that was shed.  

You return to 

Rinsing the sink 

No longer can you tell yourself  

That it is ink. 


Dont lose yourself 

In the cloud or silver lines  

You just gotta feel  

your feelings sometimes  

Glass half empty  

Or glass half full 

Till you’re dizzy  

From the roller coasters and pull

You don’t have to live 

In a world of extremes 

Sometimes you dont gotta  

Be happy or sad 

You gotta just be.  

Night Drive

He eats gravel 

Chews on stone  

Crunching crunching  

On rock harder than bone  

He swallows big mouthfuls 

Out on the street 

If you’re out driving  

Then you might just meet  

You’ll be going along  

And feel a loud bump 

Followed by your back tire 

Complaining with a thump 

You’ll ask yourself  

What could make such a hole? 

Torn up pavement 

Such a sight to behold. 

Your annoyance is apparent 

A foul mood you foster  

For many a times you have met 

The pothole monster 

Trampled Truth

Truth is a battered woman,
Trampled beneath people’s feet.
After all, you can pick her flavor?
Savory, salty, or sweet?

Nothing is ever absolute
Except for that statement.
Fear of responsibility is the root,
Of this disease that has spread

That will murder your morality
And choke truth dead.
Because if there is a right,
It would cause a conundrum,
That we avoid with all our might.
But I’m afraid the world sings this song
That if there is a right,
There must be a wrong.

So if you are on the way
And you happen upon truth
Wrap her up and hold close
Feed her at your table
And she’ll show you what you treasure most


Digging through dirt and dust

Bones and broken pottery,

Shards and rust.

I seek truth and secrets true

A discipline kept

By very few.

In my work,

I search for one thing

Between the cracks of walls it lurks

As I work, it becomes clear,

That on sentence,

“Someone was here.”


Did you know I once heard
In a poetry class
That a sign of a weak poem
Is when the writer asks?
Did you know that I heard
The teacher say
That a question has no place
In a poet’s wordplay?
So then I asked myself
Can you do this task?
Where the narrator does nothing
But question and ask?
Maybe I could end every line
With that lovely little mark?
What’s wrong with this symbol?
Am I correct in saying its not dirty or dark?
Dont you think that we owe
It a little respect?
A symbol of curiosity
Lovely Punctuation and not a defect?

Stream of Consciousness

Where does the river go? 

Tell where exactly does it flow? 

Where does the river call its home?  

Where does the river go? 

I hope it can take me there someday. 

I wish the river would carry me away. 

A modern day Moses,  carried from the fray. 

I hope the river takes me there someday.  

The Intimacy of Objects

Iced Coffee 




Your name spelled in foods 

That make me think of you. 





Your name spelled in weather 

That makes me think of you 



A charm 

That’s blue 

Your name spelled in trinkets 

That make me think of you