My vain poetic prayer in prose.

Yes it is true,
I’ll ask any I can find
to read my works and comment
so that I may bathe in the glory
of their moderately amused response.

I seek no expert
For their opinion
Will force me change.
And I do not revise who
I am.

And So I look at my writings
That I so craftily threw together in
only about as much time as
I ask my readers to waste
by reading what I have writ.


I find my philosophy dreary in
comparison to Dostoevsky.

I am no Tolkien,
for too constricted is my imagination.

And though I fancy myself a “Poe”
I am no Edgar Allen Poet.

My words are not worth much as
I am no Wordsworth either.

But I can rhyme at least some of the time
but still not like Seuss or Silverstein.

And even though I know
The little value of what I write
I feel I have something to say.

I do not care at all of what
you say of me,
But also weep for recognition,
and glory in what meager compliments
I gain in thrusting a paper
before your face.

Vanity of vanities,
My words are a mere breath,
Passing away in the wind,
And will I be remembered?
Likely I will not.

And so I find solace now
In my memory of the
Tangible yet trivial
Compliments I receive
In passing exhibitions
of my work to whoever will read.

And when I sit with
Pen in hand, I hate myself
For writing,
and hate myself more
For not being able to stop.

I call myself an artist.
Not because I fill galleries,
Or capture imaginations,
But because I cannot be anything else.

In striving to find my Pieta,
Searching for my Sistine chapel,
Or mastering a Mona Lisa,
All I produce is vanities.
And vainly seek recognition.

All I cling to is the hope that
In cosmic coincidence
A reader will one day
Cross paths with my work
And be transformed, inspired
Comforted, or aided.

And I will be remembered
At least in that moment.
And though this is
My selfish desire, I hope
For my work to inspire
Even if I am forgotten.

This is my prayer
That God who can do anything,
Will use my vain words
To speak His truth.

And so I write.

I Didn’t See

Shivering, hungry, helpless.
Blue tipped fingers
Hiding, unsuccessfully in
Gloves worn through.

That same hand
Stretched toward me.
Seeking my charity.
Was not welcomed.

Scorned by me.
He’ll buy booze,
A justification for
My own selfishness.

I walk away
But glance back,
He sits against
The red brick.

Walking past again
The next day.
Same cold man,
Same cold heart.

I walk away
Leaving him alone.
Shivering, hungry, helpless.
I don’t care.

The third day
I’m not changed
He’s still cold
Winter’s no friend.

Turning up the
Collar of my
Coat, I block
Out my coldness.

The fourth day,
He speaks up,
I act like
I don’t hear.
But I can’t
Help but see
His face is
Thinner than before.

The fifth day,
Asks for money.
“Sorry none today.”
I walk away.

His head wrapped
In beanie cap
Looks after me
Beatitude sitting there.

The sixth day
I hold my
Starbucks in hand.
He looks up.

With toothless grin
He sarcastically says
“No money today?”
Guilt creeps in.

Mumbled excuses escape
Seeking his forgiveness
Without giving anything.
He just smiles.

On the seventh,
He finally rested.
No longer dying,
Death had come.

No longer cold.
Hungry no more.
Death, a better
Friend than I

The man who
I barely noticed
I noticed now
In his absence.

Mangled Metal

Mangled metal, smoldering,
Young man’s sarcophagal
Holding cell.
His sentence
Was life,
Held for only moments.
It came too fast,
the other car,
And death.

Smoke passed,
burning rubber
Painting the ground black.
Before red stained it too.
Wreckage, wreaking havoc
On a mother’s soul.
As she stands weak
Limbs failing, she falls.

A mother
and a son,
Both lying
On the same road.
One struggling to breathe
The other
Already lost the struggle.

Red-blue flashing
Paramedics dashing
Moving fast,
Not fast enough,
To bring a mother’s
Baby home again.

Her last words,
Ironically superficial
Robotic in their structure,
“Drive safe, have fun.”
His response
A mumbled
“Don’t worry. Later mom.”

Now later,
mom doesn’t worry.
You can only worry
For the living.
She only grieves.

Cascading sorrow
Fills her speeding heart.
Inexplicable loss.
In a quick fatal crash.
A mother’s world
Crashing down.
They don’t make seat belts
For the soul.

In the pain,
She wishes for more time.
She would say
so much more.
And he would respond.

But if she had never
Received the dreadful call.
And he had come home,
Thirty Three minutes,
Past curfew like usual.

Would anything have changed?
Would she more precisely
Voice her care and concern?
And he respond
In more than
inaudible agreement?

Perhaps not.
Perhaps that simple
Constant everyday,
“Drive safe, have fun”
and that murmured,
“Don’t worry. Later mom.”
Meant the same thing,
Synonyms for “I love you.”

Grace Lynn Anne
Your son is gone.
But he knew you loved him,
And he loved you too.


I stand in the torrent of this tragic storm.
Each rain-tear-drop, 
From a child too young to die, 

Now weeping for us, 

Their tears mix with their mother’s.
And mine, and all who mourn.

They weep now not for themselves,
But for the mother of an empty cradle,

For the hero who sacrificed his
Breath so others may breathe.

And for those who will always remember.

They weep too for
The man who does not weep.

For the man who would use 
Their deaths for his own purpose.

And for all who will forget them tomorrow.

The rainbow reminds us that we will
never again be swept away for our sins.
But it is night. No visible rainbow. Only the storm
To remind us that we must be washed.

I stand looking to the skies
My eyes have exhausted all my tears,
The rain now replaces them,
For I am not done grieving.

Icy water drips from my hair,
Running down my back.
I feel the frozen chill of evil’s 
Presence, and I shudder.

Has all warmth left this world?
All these tears flow past me,
Forming dreadful puddles.
Mirrors for us to look upon our sin.

And there are no children
To play in the rain,
Or to splash in the puddles.
No laughter, only pain.

Our Future is gone.
And we have killed it.

I step out to walk on this treacherous water, 
But quickly panic, and begin to sink, 
Kicking, drowning, thrashing, calling, 

Will you hear my voice?
Will laughter return with the children,
Will they jump and splash the puddles
Bringing joy where we left pain?

I stand in the rain,
On my knees 
This is my prayer.

When She Is Near

Alone is not the worst place to be

But it’s difficult when she walks by

Every day at three


Her hair curled just so perfectly

Above one eye.

A careless cautious smile across her

Lips full of caring gentleness.


A sweater embraces her

As I would like to.


The calico cashmere scarf

around her neck reminds me

Of the noose of inaction around mine.


Two brown boots, perhaps real leather,

Walk past me.

Hello, goodbye, again,

I turn to watch her go.


Her blue jeans echo

the color of my psychology.


In her simplicity I see simply

The suppleness of unassuming pureness.

And it is simple,


I don’t want to be alone.


Alone is not the worst place to be,

It is the hardest place

When she is near me.