Taste and See

Taste and see–
The sweetness of a winter sunrise  over cold wet fog
As the city slowly begins to exist in the early chill.

Taste and see–
Sour cherry popping against egg-rich bread
In a secret conspiracy of friends.

Taste and see–
Foggy breath against cracked glass
In the wordless delight of yeast and fat.

Taste and see–
The salt of tears in the wrack of sobs
For the inescapable joy of homecoming.

Taste and see–
Bitter anger tempered in justice
For the unhomed, unloved, unseen.

Taste and see–
That the Lord is good,
And every aspect of him is good,
The sweetness of beauty,
The acid of longing,
The salt of companionship.
The righteous bitterness
That resolves into freedom.

Taste and see that the Lord is good.



I was born in a hurricane

Drowning in indignity

And they taught me how to swim

Before my words formed coherency

I learned salt from the ocean

Not from tears.


I learned to tell the difference

Between screams and wind’s howling

When the eye passed overhead

And the carnage stilled for sobbing

And the mother’s loud lament



And even ten years later

Sometimes you saw the empty eyes

Shattered by the force of nature

In buildings abandoned to the rise

Of the unforgiving sea

By those unhomed.


Please forgive my coldness;

I was taught to shut myself tight

And board up my windows

And hide in the closet

From the rage that devours.


But a hurricane candle only lasts 72 hours.

Sonata in Suspended Smiles

“I smile to hide my depression” he laughs, and I
pause too long; the smile drains. He laughs
again; uneasy, now. He won’t ask why
I froze; the silence whispers paragraphs.

“This homework gives me a panic attack!” She grins.
Her temple vein pulses; I twitch in response
As blood drains from her. No-one wins
this game of truths. It’s an all-around loss.

“You’re driving me crazy,” she giggles, shoving
happily by. The manic tinge of fear
gives lie to the laugh. Not surfeit of loving–
I bleed sympathy. No safety here.

“My teacher is psycho,” he mutters, angry scowl
bolding his words, the slight (imagined or real)
made distant by his self-righteous howl
of judgment. No chance of appeal.

“The kids are nuts,” she sighs, and all doors are gone
for students who just needed to find one.

Social Media

Perhaps we are glued to our phones

because we are lonely

perhaps the promise of a digital companion

who doesn’t know our name

but knows our heart

is more alluring than the flesh around us

who know our name

and our past

and our presence

but could care less what goes on inside

as long as it acts according to expectations

(sit still. quiet hands. eye contact.)

and perhaps we enjoy the honesty

of screaming into a digital void

because it ends in companionship

not censure

perhaps i am on my phone because i don’t want to talk to you

because the person on the other side of the screen

is more a part of my community

than you ever were

perhaps you shouldn’t ask what is wrong with us

that we ignore you

but what is wrong with you

that we feel such a desperate need to escape

into the arms of a stranger

who we will never touch.

Perhaps you should not blame the prisoner

for wanting to imagine freedom

but blame the prison

for taking it away.

Not A Poem

This is not a poem. It

is not beautiful; it

does not sing.

This is a scream.

Where have all the children gone?

They were lost–

Somewhere between DC and CA

we lost our way

and lost our kids.

Instead, we are left with a paltry few

hollow-eyed strangers who

fear both the dark and the light.

we revoked their rights

to be innocent, to live,

instead of a playground we give them

a tomb.

(if we even allow them to escape the womb)

And we’ll keep trading

their noise and their smells and their laughter and tears

for a porcelain fantasy

and our comfortable fears.