Category Archives: 2013 Poetry

Brushing Death’s Door

I brush my fingers along the metal bar. It says “Press here to Enter,” but still I wait and ponder. I can feel his presence in my fingertips, it does not bring a feeling of sadness or fear. Nor will I pen some overly used quip about a lost lover. Instead I feel a vibration from the door that comes from the steady crooning of a very real voice. A voice that rages, that offers sweet rewards, that consoles after death, and one that offers an opportunity for escape. How permanent that escape feels as my hands finally press the entrance open to the crypt.

The building is warm and inviting. Windows have been placed on the East side and the sun seems placed to greet the dead each day. I turn towards the coffin wall and my eyes attempt to widen and engulf the magnitude of death before me. My Korean eyes strain to open further… but to no avail. I see a few of my ancestors in the corner. Their misty forms seem to shake as they laugh hysterically at my attempts. At least they managed to keep their humor in death, I think to myself as I roll my eyes.

I walk towards a name, five from the top and three over. I place my hand upon the placard, it gleams bright. Brand new, I can still see the glue where the price tag was stuck. I rub at it furiously, its presence suddenly offends me. I step away once satisfied that all is as it should be… as it must be. There are no flowers here, only stone and metal. This actually makes me happy. There is nothing here that will die again.

He need not return once more.

-Opinionated Man


The Final Embrace

There is a picture making its way around the blog world of the Bangladesh tragedy and in the photo is a man embracing a woman as they die. He is half hugging and half shielding her from the debris which can be seen to have crushed them to death. Someone titled it “The Final Embrace” and it seems fitting. I have seen it two days in a row now and this second time I won’t just pass by it.

A sudden shaking, but we are in a building, and yet the whole structure is rocking back and forth. This cannot be possible and yet it is a reality of the moment, and in a moment decisions of a lifetime are made.

I search desperately, where is she? My knees are shaking from the sudden chaos that has erupted around me. I hear screams, too many screams, some are yelling for help. It tears my heart to not stop, to not give aid, but I must find her first. She is all that matters. Smoke fills the room, lights are flickering, and I can’t seem to find my direction even though I have worked in this building countless times. The smell of burning cloth assaults my sense of smell and I cough. As I choke on a cloud of smoke the room briefly clears as if by a miracle. And then I see her…

She is pinned to the ground by a concrete pillar and she is desperately pushing at it as if she can move it herself. I burst into a run and yell her name as I fall down beside her.

It won’t move,” she says faintly.

Hold on, just hold on,” I mutter as I begin to try and lift. I yell desperately for help, but all that I hear are similar calls.

Go, go…” she says as she tries to push me away.

Above the building shakes a second time and I hear a loud cracking sound all around me. I quickly embrace her.

Please go…” she says one more time.

When the sun dies,” I say back as the world dies around us.




His wings are clipped. They hold no air.
Swaying like a strand of hair.

A sad image, mixed with color and tears.
The artist weeps but also fears.

That the image might begin to fade.
To it we become a slave.

He is fallen but he does not fall. To falter in step expected, remain tall.

And as he searches desperately for that which is lost. He burns the earth with his tears. He does not realize that what he seeks is no longer obtainable. Sadly does he flutter to land but not to be a god among men. He has no pride for that. Instead he accepts what fate has written.

And as a sun dies, a star is born.
To outshine that which was lost.
And as a son is born, a father dies.
To free up light for those to come.


The Rain

I hear it coming in the form of thunder. The coming clouds tell me the rain approaches. It comes to Florida in the sound of skittles hitting the pavement and the falling of a child. It scatters across America as injustice’s banner is waved above our own. The rain pours like the pelting of protest as our military men are offered jobs at Wal-Mart as compensation for their service. It glares as the corporate lawn next to mine gets to water daily, but I am forced onto a 2 day water restriction. It will breed hot with rage when the lower 3 quarters gets tired of being told how to live by the lesser amount. The rain will come.


Misplaced Smiles

Misplaced Smiles awarded to undeserving faces.

Gather them like leaves and set them afire.

I have spread them across all the races.

The promise of future pyres.

Friendships are made in promise, not gold.

Their fortitude is thus suspect to question.

I wonder if the Misplaced Smiles were sold.

And thus we learn another lesson.


Frozen Pane

I stare through a frozen pane. The intricate trails of ice create cascading colors that glance into my eye. I barely notice. The sense of frozen time draws me and stills my heart for a second. A second of thought to contemplate a lifetime. That is what takes place today as I stare through this frozen window. Winter’s coming breath is deflected by structures created by man. We build up the walls high to keep away the cold, the unknown, and sometimes the known. But still, even after that wall is built, we catch ourselves staring in wonder. Perhaps in longing? We watch the world through a frozen pane and still wish to belong.


A Cathedral of Fire

I flick my pen in the direction of the walls and the ceiling above.

A Cathedral of Vocabulary is formed around me.

Like the splattering of paint, words fly forth from my baton.

I direct a Fantasia like chorus, full of meaning and hope.

Mantras we recite and in those moments we are the moment.

I wonder my room can contain it all, as the jumbling ideas create a cacophony.

And like a climax my Cathedral catches fire and begins to burn.

I drink my Famous Grouse and savor the warmth of the burning words.

As I inhale them they form nicely with the flavors of my whisky.

I savor both and join in with the flames.


An Ounce of Finality

He pours an ounce of finality into a glass. The action lasts a lifetime and memories flow with each drop of liquid. The whiskey lays waiting with memories floating like ice cubes. The harsh touch of the alcohol forces away the inhibitions of the waiting beverage. Before a sip has been taken, secrets have been released within its amber depths. Dreams, fears, and regrets float lifelessly under the surface, frozen in surreal poses of imagination and reality from the past.

Like a museum I am surrounded each night by the shades of the past. They form a silent line while I choose my sleep’s companion. I glance up periodically in frustration at the waiting faces. They make neither sound nor motion, instead content to wait upon my recognition of their existence. As the memories held within my glass crack and break apart, they dissolve releasing their contents into the amber abyss. Another skeleton can be seen descending to join his brethren below. He takes the crown I toss to him and places it upon his head.


I Dream

I dream a dream within a dream.

Like falling through an onion’s rings.

There is no fate, there is only me.

Who am I meant to be?

I drink a drink to help me think.

Until the cup’s bottom does wink.

What was I meant to see?

I tell a tale of past and present’s hell.

There are no lovely wedding bells.

And yet happiness can be seen.

I write to write something for the light.

The darkness holds no right.

And through it all a life is lived and here I sit in between.


The Dark

I feel blind. Without my medication there is no poetry, no desire to write… I see words and thoughts, but they slip from my grasp like smoke. There is just a blank sheet. It feels like a disease… like I am a child again. I hate this feeling. I seem to only be able to express myself in short sentences. I don’t feel like conversing. I hate you. I hate me. It will get better… just not today. Not today.

They walk by the window and observe the closed sign hanging from a chain. It is an oddity, a puzzle. There is just nothing here right now.



He wanders about in the landfill searching for lost treasures. Objects that people have discarded and no longer see value in. A half-eaten can of beans, a bag of bread that is only partially molded, and a blanket that looks brand new except for a tear are all the Christmas presents he needs this year. His tears of gratitude are admired by the observant birds above as they turn overhead and watch the best and worst that man has to offer. Here they behold the pure image of humility and they give witness to this man’s conversation with someone he calls Jesus. Whoever this symbolic creature is the sanctity in his name is not missed by the small-minded creatures above. They sing to each other seeming to repeat the spoken gift amongst themselves. Suddenly as one the birds begin to fly low, catching the man’s eye below, as they dramatically shoot straight up into the sky. Their action guides the man’s sight to the one he so eagerly praises and in that moment his faith is solidified in the recognition that the glory he seeks is actually above and not to be found upon the earth that he walks.

Puddle of Dreams

I cry tears of pain and sorrow. They gather in a pool at my feet and cause my eyes to stare into the depths for answers. Small waves chop the surface as my eyes keep up a steady pattern of fallen dreams. Inside the pool I see my reflection. He speaks to me, rages at me, he is me. The image is a creation of my past and is a mixture of all the emotions I have given witness to over the years.

You sit there like an anchor, weighing me down so that my feet are immobile. You cause me to contemplate my regrets and amplify the pain from my failures. This goes on until I realize how small you really are. You are a puddle, not a lake or an ocean. You are not the Mississippi, the Amazon, or the Nile. You are a personal anchor and thus small, but because you bear my face you place greater weight upon my shoulders. I realize the only way to be rid of you is to simply step over you.

I step forward.


A shadow and a soul

A shadow and a soul stood on the deck observing the sunrise. They argued about the past, how it had really occurred, and speculated on the future and who would not be needed. It is an interesting sight for the birds as they alternate their amusement between the man and the morning worms. The gods laugh at our seriousness and the angels sigh over our frailty in jealousy. And still we stand and ignore it all.

We argue.



They touch with thought. The desire is felt physically through their eyes. Music is in the background… something soft and unobtrusive. Nothing matters but the present.

He raises his hand and touches her cheek. He does not caress her, he is afraid he might mar her beauty. Instead he lightly touches her and whispers in her ear.

A hint of a blush, a small nervous giggle, those are the rewards for the right words. That is what he is given.

Their eyes meet once more. Desire has been replaced by passion and fear. The passion is for the emotion; the fear is that the moment might slip away. They embrace it.

As their lips touch they do not lose eye contact, they do not lose the present. There are no fireworks, no magical lightning bolts that come from their kiss. The effects are internally felt though, a slow throbbing of need, and want, has replaced given heartbeats. Their hearts seem to be one.

He leads her through the door. She hesitates… but only for a moment. She is already there. As she takes her first willing step she sheds her doubts like a robe, placed upon the floor next to her clothes.

And above the moon closes his eyes and wishes for the sun.

Have a good weekend everyone.


Giving Birth to Death

The screams can be heard from outside the home. Not surprising in this small village of straw huts and tin garages that serve as humble abodes. Strangely, despite the poverty, the place feels like home.

Soft voices whispering comforting words rise from the small window from the bedroom. He looks in quickly so as not to be noticed. Men are not allowed during these times of… trial.
He sees his wife, glowing as the sun. Her face is full of pain, such pain. He desires only to go to her, but knows that he should not. His outstretched hand falls limply to his side. He can only serve as the spectator that he is.

The village “doctor” murmurs and shakes her head. She turns and whispers something to a waiting girl who quickly darts out the door for some necessary object. On the bed his wife pants for breath as if she has run miles and still has further to go.

A shriek pierces the night and torments his ears. He will never forget that sound. Missing is the commotion of joy or happiness. Only terror at what might be happening, at what is to come.

And as the doctor bends down she can be seen to remove a body. A small body that does not move, and yet still it glows as his wife does. A piece of heaven, a piece of perfection, untouched by the hate and the fear of the world. The baby will forever sleep in peace.

In this knowledge, in giving birth to death, a father can find some comfort.



Do not waste your tears or concern over me. A shadow does not need sympathy and rarely acknowledges it, even when presented with the kindest of intentions. I float between scenes, never the main character, but more important than you and you. I have played my part in tragedies, in stories of happiness, and in tales of shame. Amusing to think that the hero can also take on so many other roles and yet willingly do I accept the mask that is given to me. For when I wear the mask no one can see my grimace of disgust. No one can truly see me.

Singular am I as I stand by myself and enjoy the companionship of the wind. Company does not bring comfort, but instead causes a feeling of claustrophobia that threatens to overwhelm me. This is when I am appreciative of my loneliness so that my focus is not divided. No I do not have time for your troubles or issues; they will never supersede my own. My problems stand in a long line of succession and present a lineup one might expect in prison. Their names are even more ridiculous than the vices that they own, but still at least they are mine. At least the decisions were made solely by me alone and because of that I can accept the consequences.

I will never try to justify who I am. I don’t feel the need to and I don’t think people deserve to know all the “whys.” If you want to know “why” something is the way it is go walk the path yourself. Do not attempt to pick the lock of a closed chest simply to satisfy your own selfish curiosity.



It has been a long time since I have seen the sun so bright. I hardly recognize the shadow on the ground. It follows me still though so it must be me. A lot of little bottles make a big bottle right? That is what the crow told me last night as he picked at my bones and woke me from my sleep. No more than two hours he whispered, more than that it begins to feel like pleasure. It is a shaky hand that pulls the chain hanging from the moon. It illuminates the night and turns the stars invisible. The sky should never be without the twinkling of chased dreams and yet my sky does not blink. Instead it stares down upon me, adding weight upon my sleeping conscience. I battle and rage within myself. 6 steps now and days are attached to each progression. It does little to comfort. Not yet. Not for me.



They will never understand you. They will ridicule what they don’t comprehend and will find fault with that which they cannot perceive. As different eyes see different truths, so too will their vision behold an alternate answer. Be not offended by their ignorance for it is just that… stupidity by definition. Were the world full of only geniuses no one would be special. Be comforted and enjoy the fact that the less intelligent around you simply serve to highlight your own rare nature. It is a nature that thrives on thought and the processing of knowledge in hopes of gaining a better insight into the world. As we gain more knowledge it is inevitable that we will come to find out that “they” are nothing like us. In fact they might not even be human.


Exploding Butterflies

I walk amongst the fallen and still falling. They pause for lifetimes in the air, just long enough for a tear to form. It does not drop, but instead hangs like a cliffhanger… for just another second still. From that drop of lifewater twirls reflections of reality and like a chandelier of chaos it dangles from my eyelash like a flambeau leading my vision by example.

I blink…

And in doing so I shatter the illusion that had begun to form and like a splash of cold water I awaken to exploding butterflies around me. I dance amongst their carcasses like raindrops as I spread my fingers between their lives. Such small droplets of insignificant identities, worthless now, and weighing no more than the wind’s breath that carries them. They flutter for a second as if desperate to matter for just a moment longer… but eventually they continue to descend upon their preordained path.

I step…

Within my motion I strive for emotion. I push myself to want to feel for that which I have seen and that I am currently seeing before my eyes. I begin to cry. Not tears of ideology or circumstance, but real tears that come from a connection to a moment. A moment never lasts though and like fog it vanishes before the fury of desperation. Desperately I take another step.


Mountains and Steps

Accomplishments can sometimes be a hard thing. You conquer a mountain only to find yourself on top of it with your hands on your hips wondering what is next. Sometimes this can cause a momentary lapse in motivation. I have always wondered how artists and painters that seem to push work out with incredible speed do it. Do they not sit for a second and contemplate and appreciate their work? It isn’t a total mystery to me, however, since I view blogging with much of the same respect. I do not sit back on my accomplishments and smile… at least not much. Doing that is only a temporary satisfaction to me, the end goal is the true satisfaction in life for me. I am thus always pushing and driving towards something in the distance.

I have to stop to remind myself to appreciate the now and the current moment. I have always had an issue with appreciating the moment I am living in, too busy focusing on something in the future. I don’t have a huge problem with worrying overly about the past, it has happened and I move on, but the future is so intriguing to me that I sometimes find myself living there… instead of here. Driving into work today I noticed a beautiful sight from my normal drive in Broomfield, CO. I glanced towards the mountains and noticed a perfect postcard scene. Dark clouds had surrounded a distant mountain top, but had parted enough to allow a halo of light to illumine the top. The surrounding mountains were perfectly darkened, as if in homage to the single peak in the distance. It made me stop and wonder if anyone else had appreciated the scene like I had, or were they too busy trying to get home for the night as most people are during that time of the day.

One mountain at a time, one step at a time is how I am trying to live my days. Appreciating each moment for the moment, it is a hard concept for someone with my personality traits. It can be done though.


The Dance

They seem to float, limbs extended beyond the possibility of extension. Their minds are focused and locked on each action, outwardly they portray a grace that cannot be learned. As they dance the audience is captivated by the moment and all anyone wishes to know is why are these people dancing? What is the meaning and purpose being shown? For all we can do is sit in envy at the perfect beauty of the moment. We are fascinated by the connection between humans and their art. A very real connection and one that often times eludes us ordinary men… we do stare in envy. But our envy does not overpower our appreciation for the accomplishment that two dancers have made us feel emotion by perfect motion.


The Cameraman

He watches the world confined within a small box.

But when he goes home he dreams of circles.

He spends his time around the rich and famous.

None of them know his name.

He eats the same food as the stars and even drinks bottled water.

When he steps through his door he is simply tenant 130.

No one cares about his life but Sylvester.

And sitting in his La-Z-Boy he pictures the camera still.

Only the life being captured is his and people actually care.


Nameless – Ahn Jong He

If you are out there, this is for you.

I wonder what you are doing. Is your life a good one… do you know I exist? Every possible bad scenario has been played out and rerun like a “Friends” episode. I try not to dwell on all the different plots my crooked mind has created. There is no mental image to go by, just a single picture of time once frozen. I stare at it sometimes, dreaming and hoping it might magically alter if only for a moment. To let me know that it is a real picture of you and not some figment of my imagination. The proof is yet to come, but within the pools of my tears late at night I sometimes see a face looking back. It is not mine and somehow I just know… it is you.


The Dock

I see them passing by. Different colors, sizes, holding occupants from different places and off to see some new adventure. It is like a reel of life playing before my eyes.

The emotion that wells forth is a longing, a fleeting fancy of jealousy. It is the same notion I get when I hear and then witness a plane passing overhead. I want to be there on that plane.

It is not a depressive want for escape from my life, for I would want my wife and daughters to see the world with me, it is instead an inner urge to never feel settled. It is a wonder I am so complacent on a daily basis for I feel this nomadic tedency to strike camp and see what is out there…just over there one more horizon away. It is hard to shake this feeling when it occurs, maybe one day soon we will fold our tents and see the next city on our list. Hopefully somewhere with an ocean view and endless inspirations for pages yet to be written.


The Wishing Lake

In the woods not far from an unremarkable village is a lake masked in mystery. The lake is your normal picture of awe and inspiration. There is the normal greenish gloom hanging about the place. Just dark enough to draw you in and it still feel cool to be there, almost a Harry Potter kind of awesomeness. The place is outside time. It has seen knights in armor and business women in Armani. The lake is waiting for a wish made with faith and a coin and has seen too many visitors to count. What has befallen is that the lake has already begun to fill with the coins given in offering. Gone is the water, no more does wildlife come to sip from the once cool placid surface. Instead a mound of copper, silver, and gold presents itself in remarkable glory for all to behold. To stand as prized idol made by man’s simple passion, man’s simple need to need. And upon a wish a god is born, hidden from all in the forest, but created by all.



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