At the end of 2012, I had my first poems published in the Palimpsest Literary Journal in both digital and print. Copies of the journal are available online and also within the living room of my mother, she is very proud of me. Here are two of my selected poems. These poems came from two separate short stories I wrote for a fiction writing class that worked better as poems. I am still currently writing poetry, although other life activities have taken hold of my life and future publication submissions have been put on hold for now. Please check back soon to see more postings in the future.
– Anton Chekhov
A clock sits on a bedside table
Evening settles in
The sun drifts behind rose draped clouds
Covering purple mountains
Early February cold drifts in through an open window
he leans over to close it shut
The button on his alarm is set early
he heads for the bed and picks up a large object
Sitting along the corner of the mattress
he rests the rifle upon a knee
He takes a small gray cloth
moving it along the barrel of the gun
feel the weight of it within your hands
A sealed letter is addressed upon
Piles of graduation announcements
He lifts the gun to his eye.
Slowly the rifle moves upward
he picks a line of clear sight
A target just above the door.
he whispers to himself
while he imagines the empty PBR beer can
fall to the floor
He moves the barrel again.
he focuses on a small shoebox in
the corner of his closet.
he whispers again
His body turns and his focus lands
on a picture of a boy who fooled happiness
He focused hard this time
Closed one eye and focused around his smile.
He moved the rifle level with the picture
tightened his hold on the trigger and whispered
He put the rifle down and turned it in his hands.
It seemed heavier, almost.
Holding the gun sturdy in his hands,
Closing both eyes
He pointed the gun to his chest he whispered.
The weather man said today was a
good day to send sunshine to someone
you love. A small tree stands singularly
in the yard. No grass surrounds it
The grass yearns for water like the prisoners
who watch the tree day after day. It
stands alone, not ordinary or unique.
It does not require beauty, we do
not require it to be beautiful.
It does not give hope, we do not give it
expectations. Yet each day, it remains
alone in the yard. It does not give life;
it remains immobile, unable to leave,
as we are unable to leave. I find
myself watching this tree, outside my
window, each day.
I am angered by this tree. This tree
is alone, it chooses this isolation.
It has chosen this yard. And yet, I
watch this tree.
It is not something to look forward to.
Nor is it something to take my mind off
circumstances. It is a reminder that although
the sun is shining, I have no one to
send my love to but this tree.
But instead we express ourselves through stories.
We are brought to life by stories. These stories
others have come to depend on, Stories
can save us. Stories that have me in a
love affair with an ugly tree outside
a window that I can neither touch nor scold.
But it is still just a tree.