Summer Girl

Posted by on May 11, 2014 in Poems | 0 comments

I never knew her name
But I loved her
Because when she ascended from the water
Her long brown hair clung
To the back of her neck
And her one-piece swimsuit.

She lived behind freckles
And her brown eyes
Never met mine.

The giant concrete pond teemed
With kids – mostly white, some black –
While our parents worked.

My brother drove
My father’s black Z28 Camaro
With a red pinstripe and T-tops.
From the street
With a telescopic lens
Through a chain link fence
He stole a picture of her.

He took the picture
To embarrass me.
I took the picture
And placed it behind
A thick layer of film
In a photo album.

She is faceless
Frozen in midair, graceful,
Launched from the diving board
A 90-degree angle
Aiming at the water’s surface.

The heads float above the water
The arms are outstretched
Open hands, an invitation
Come on in
The water’s fine
Let the sun beat down
On your sunburnt shoulders
Smell the chlorine
Riding on the air
Listen to the kids
Screaming with glee
And remember the one
With no name and no face
Whom you loved.


(I wrote this in June 2011 for a class I was taking. Maybe it’s because summer’s right around the corner that I’ve been thinking about it for the last couple of days.)

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The Word was God

Posted by on Mar 13, 2014 in Prose | 0 comments

“It’s just like Charlie Brown!”

I knew my stepmother’s words came from a place of affection, but it didn’t feel like it. I had worked diligently on this short story about a young boy and his debilitating crush on a girl. Her words had reduced my work to a story that could be slapped into the Sunday funny pages. I knew it was meant to be a compliment, but I took it as an insult.

But that wasn’t enough to deter me from writing, and a brand new electric Smith-Corona typewriter for my 12th birthday only encouraged the habit. A few years ago, I ran across a piece I wrote on that typewriter. It was an insipid short story about a guy who was imprisoned for his beliefs about banning nuclear weapons (for some reason, this was the giant shocker at the end of the piece) and how he had scratched out the number of days he had lived in a dank prison cell. I didn’t remember writing the piece, but I was struck by my own ability, despite all of the typos and grammar issues, to write with such heart.

What I do recall is one evening of writing, seated in a marred wooden swivel chair and a matching desk. It was late, and I had been writing awhile. I wasn’t writing for a teacher. I was writing for me. I had lost track of time. I could tell you it was a few minutes, but in reality it might have only been a few seconds. I don’t know. What I do know is that I felt as if I had a direct connection with God. I felt as if everything I was doing – whether it was right or wrong – was divine. My words weren’t golden, but the experience of pecking out words with my index fingers was.

I’ve read of writers who talk about losing their own identities while they write. Some even talk about the Muses whispering in their ears. Others suggest that they aren’t the ones even writing, that they’re simply the conduit for something greater.

Maybe that’s why we write, to prove that we are made in God’s image. Or maybe we do it just to see – by the simple act of putting words to paper – if we can reconnect with our maker. Who knows?

What I do know is that ever since that late-night moment, every time I sit down to write, I hope for that kind of experience again. A few times I’ve come close. Most of the time I haven’t. But I show up anyway, praying that this time is it.

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Your father, revisited

Posted by on Jan 10, 2014 in Poems | 1 comment

This past summer I wrote this poem “Your Father.” Something’s being bothering me about it ever since then, but I haven’t been able to put my finger on it. Last night I realized it needed a second stanza to complete it. So here’s the new version:

When I told
your father
your old house
had burned down
he said, “Huh”
as if I
had simply
mentioned the
time of day.

He’s probably
still pissed off
about that
time when you
were ten and
you pulled that
shotgun on
him and said,
“Get out now.”

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Posted by on Nov 27, 2013 in Poems | 0 comments

Through the glass
he stared into the garden
as the ashes were buried
beneath the stepping stone.

In the reflection
she held onto the baby
as its eyes were fluttering
against her bare shoulder.

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Piethievery & alchemy

Posted by on Oct 26, 2013 in stuff & things | 0 comments

“He’d fallen into the hands of a madwoman here. Someone too long alone who dwelt in a surreal realm where the punishment for piethievery was death by shotgunning and the alchemy by which crushed pies were made whole was commonplace.”

– William Gay, Twilight

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