Untitled (Dream Poem)

Maybe you have everything arranged just right

but then what can you do 

when you look over at
a boy much bigger than an atom

and he hangs his head
and asks about a missed circus?

Wisdom

I held the hand

of silk

and sand

And her laughter bubbled

thick

and unfamiliar

Like a lobster

emerging

from the muck.

Untitled (Wintry Poem)

With concerted effort

the desert sky

can 

cough up

a few snowflakes

that are quickly

swallowed

by the thirsty earth.

But here,

a casual sky

spits

-- bleeds --

snow.

Even the air

sweats 

snowflakes that multiply like bacteria,

colonizing the ground

in no time.

It’s very gratifying.

Solitude

Dry leaves stampede

And ragged windy fingertips

Scatter sunlight’s frozen ashes

And we point with raw hands

And lift bowed heads

To whisper to each other,

“Snow…”

And then it is winter.

It’s a Nightmare: Dreamlike Elements in Kafka’s The Trial

Franz Kafka’s The Trial portrays the trial of a man accused of a crime he does not believe he committed by a court reliant on influence to the exclusion of evidence. This man, Josef K., becomes inextricably entangled in trying to influence the verdict of his trial through both legitimate and illegitimate channels. Josef K.’s entire experience seems, at times, like a giant nightmare--literally. The tale seems dreamlike because of the narration’s irrelevant and inappropriate physical details, claustrophobic and conspiratorial focus on K., and illogical progressions.

A poem I wrote in middle school

Re-found this one recently and thought it would be fun to share.

The Fish Angel

As I walked beside the sea
I saw a girl with golden hair
As I passed she looked at me
As though I weren’t there.

She leapt into the waves
Like a mermaid child
Seeming nearly as brave
but not quite as wild.

There was grace in her motion
As she dodged the water’s flow
And the cold of the ocean
Set her eyes and cheeks aglow.

I watched her every moment
Of the quickly passing day
And then she tossed me coral
And swiftly swam away.

The Creed of the Recovering Perfectionist

I fear that I will step awry
A fear that's kept me shackled long
I know on some days I'll get by
On others I will sure step wrong.

But if I turn the wrong direction
I can always shift my way
And if I fail to make correction
Morning brings another day.

So I go on with this in mind:
That no mistake is permanent
And if in fear myself I find
I tell myself with good intent:

That if time fails remorse to dull
Then death itself will make it null.