The Plagiarist

Welcome to National Poetry Month, everybody!

The Plagiarist

Worlds lie bare

before the intellectual

the pen moves but

slow before the thoughts—

easier still to drift

into another night sky

and pluck the stars

for pocket-borne

pages academics

snare and preen

with words of ascension

no thought to the have-been

only the where-to

no acknowledgement

for services rendered

merely an old book

full of new stars

on which the autograph

is still drying.

National Poetry Month & a Novelicious Preview

AtFaithsEndIt occurs to me that it has been some time since I had an update on my novelicious progress–which is to say, an update on “As Feathers Fall,” the third and final novel in my Haunted Shadows fantasy trilogy. At the same time, it’s National Poetry Month. As a writer, I should be focused; quite the conundrum that leaves me in. Fortunately, I have just the solution.

Oh, I’m still going poetic on you all, but this time it also happens to be an excerpt from chapter 6 of the novel. Faithful readers: can you guess who might be pondering, and whom they might be pondering about?

In ebon hour

all men know the baker’s power

the rite of life

beyond, betwixt, by edge of knife—

a magic notwithstanding

a birthing in the powdered breathing

where hand, on hand, the flesh

commits by blind and dust enmesh

salvation in creation:

solidifying by fiery consumption.

More updates will be forthcoming in time! Stay patient! Stay strong!

No More

“No more”

the old man cries,

spares the young men to die

forcing wrinkled face to greet life–

a lie.

* My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! If you get the chance, be sure to check out all the other talented One Stop poets posting there – and what about yourself? If you haven’t signed up yet, and you’re among the creative…what are you waiting for?

Hospital Thoughts

For my father:

Through yonder window breaks

The boy

Kneeling at the bedside table

A prayer

Somewhere in the midst

Of life,

The feet of death hang

In grayscale

Monument of the quiet man’s strength

A shroud

Over hope, the sing-song memory

It perseveres

Through white-coat salutations

Their assurance

Little comfort in the night’s long hour

Laid out

When he is naught but dreams

A longing

Night’s crystal rain

The watch

He is the only one, he tells himself

That sees

The wrinkles and the lines, in pallid sheets

The world

If he can make it through the night—

Slow breaths—

Hope will find them in the dawn.

My father and mother, seen here at my brother's wedding rehearsal.

My submission to this week’s One Shot Wednesday, and one that holds a special place with me. I wrote this a few days ago when, if you will remember, I was caught in the throes of a massive worry in my own life, revolving around my ailing father. Since then, he has undergone surgery and is apparently recovering now…and while that recovery time will be long, it is still a comfort to know that he will be better again.

This work revolves mostly around the feelings of waiting, the uncertainty, the hoping…the great pain that comes with watching and being unable to do anything in those long nights.

No Kiss

It is not the beard you crave

But the lips behind it,

The kiss

It shook empires

In its youth, bitter thing

Rendered golden in that

Midas way where

Men breathe

Never seeing a

Kiss is never just a kiss

It knows not the contours

Flesh bone and blood

The Sin

One weary heart

Coaxes from quivering walls.