Why is being the better person good for me? It doesn't help me sleep at night...Ambien does that. It doesn’t make me a stronger person; strength is irrelevant as useful as a bikini on an Inuit during the freezing winter in the deepest regions of the personalized hell I’ve constructed just for my future. This … Continue reading Goodman – A Poem
The tiger prowls in the reeds, slow, deliberate steps. It waits for me, on the periphery never venturing into my eyeline except for brief moments when my concentration wavers when my faith falters when my mind gives way to fatigue. It is always there, always waiting, always hungry. Amazon's Best Books of the Year
Flames above, I enter the water below. Gasping for breath, crying when I have it. Grasping an old wood bridge, cover from hellfire all ‘round. Children, flesh of my flesh, cling to each other like living life rafts, coughing stagnant water. I used to sit here, used to fish on clear, sweet days, but the … Continue reading Mind of its own – A Poem
Chip in, choomba, we’ve got a city to burn, roast, make some synthetic s’mores cause you know we ain’t got real chocolate, while everything around us all the glittering, jeweled towers and the corporats that infest them get caught in the blaze. It’ll be glorious.
I stare at blank Word docs each time I sit at my computer. The blank page, nothing is scarier to a writer or more invigorating. The lack of depth, of character of purpose of pride of honesty of loss of all the things the writer is scared to show, frightened to reveal to the reader … Continue reading Don’t be afraid of the blank – A Poem
When personal pain can be transformed into beautiful work, that is my definition of “art”. The collection of poems found in “Displaced Egos” by A.M. Aylward carries the writer’s pain simultaneously like a thick overcoat but underneath that coat is poignancy, grace and reclaimed power. Poetry, as an artform, is deeply personal and in many … Continue reading Beauty Through Pain – Review of A.M. Aylward’s “Displaced Egos”
Frustration boils over like a pot of pasta left on the burner too long with the cover over it. We don’t know when our number is up, but we should check the egg timer periodically.
Bringing down wrath like rays of sunshine, glimpsed through a break in the clouds. If only this was true for the truly wicked.
Running through the field the snow shows my tracks until the wind comes and wipes them away. It’s as if I was never here. How do I leave a mark? How?
The eagle has lost many feathers and its skinned is burned from the fires of ignorance. The eagle has lost many feathers and its feet are shackled with iron forged of lies. The eagle has lost many feathers but it will, given time, learn to fly again.