A Quick Breath of Air

Scheduling constraints (and personal limitations) prevent me from writing or sharing anything fresh with you all. At present I am fostering a kitten, and much of this week was spent helping Breakaway Ministries as a volunteer. Still, I don’t want the blog to be a summer endeavor only, so I am forcing myself back out here, and I hope to repeat the act in a semi-regular fashion. Because of limited time, these posts will almost always be poetry, unless I’m feeling incredibly confident about something.

I wrote this nearly a year ago, and transcribed it to my computer in November of 2014. I’m not sure what sparked the original idea, but that is the case with many poems that are older than one year.

Into rocky winding song
Valley narrow, verses long
And with bleeding hands hold on
While the burden tumbles gone.
Cold refrain at valley’s head
Sing aloud until you’re dead
Perhaps one day to be read
“On smooth sheets now rest your head.”

A Very Tiny Crumb

I promise that, at some point, I will return to a more wholesale presentation of creativity. My hope has been that, every other post, I could present some piece to you– be that a prose or poem. The ‘off’ posts, like my last, would then be thought of as the miscellaneous bits and pieces that allow me to pad this blog out.

Regarding the bit I am showing you today: I thought that I would share an incredibly small piece of something that I am working on. Its a part of the first chapter, but I think it is safe enough to share. I should also note: As this is a draft I am sharing with you, it is very likely that this is not the final form of this paragraph. It is extremely probable that I will either revise it again, or even possibly omit it. To that end, if you have a strong opinion one way or another, I’d ask that you share them in the comments. It is always helpful to receive feedback.
All of that said, enjoy!


Thirty minutes after Gregory left the tavern, it began to rain; thunder and lightning soon followed. There was a myth often told in Pharus that the Fairy King wept on the night after one human murdered another. Though the sky was usually overcast, it didn’t rain often. Indeed, it might never stop raining were the myth actually true.

Something old

This week, in the absence of poetry or a story (I promise I am doing more than it seems), I though I would share this little snippet with you. It is from an e-portfolio that I was supposed to create for A&M’s university honors program. No longer a part of that program, I had completely forgotten about the post until recently, and decided that I would publish it here for you all. I hope that is alright.

The first time I heard about an e-portfolio, I was a freshmen at Richland Jr. College. I was largely still a high school student, had no understanding of where I wanted to go, and considered the assignment to be nothing more than busy work from a class that didn’t really matter. Inadvertently, I had adopted the perception that everything I did should have an obvious objective; I believed that if I was to be troubled to work on a project or class, I should know and understand just why I had to do that work.

Long, rambling story short, I failed that class, largely because


of my lack of attentiveness to the e-portfolio project. Adding salt to the wounded ego, I still had to retake the class, because Richland required it of every student entering their program. Like it or not, I would have to work, and on a project where I might not understand the immediate benefits. I was going to have to take myself out of the drivers seat once again,and I would have to trust that my instructors understood enough to point me in the right direction.
I will not insult your intelligence by tying this into some absurd attempt of perseverance triumphing over all troubles. I won’t even go so far as to say I have fully learned the lesson that I stated above, but I am learning. I’ve realized that right now I have two options. I can sit in some corner, pretending that my limited understanding is all there is, or I can humble myself to the truth that this world is a lot bigger than I give it credit for, and there is plenty more to learn.

Credit to Hannah Alger for this little gem.

Is it perfect? No. Nothing is. Like I said before, this isn’t some corny “you can do it” story. It’s not even complete. I expect that I will have to be taught to learn time and time again. We’re not willing to learn unless we admit that there is something we don’t already know, which implies personal weakness or deficiency.

While I’m in the process of deviating from required content, I thought I might insert a short quote by C. S. Lewis. I will probably quote Lewis a good number of times, as I am continuously humbled and inspired by his work. In his fantasy work, “The Horse and His Boy” Lewis made a very simple, yet very striking remark: “Do not dare not to dare.” I think that while I might never reach the apex of mental ability or writing effectiveness, I should still try my hardest to improve on myself – dare to grow, as it were.

A Few Notes and A Poem (or Two)

First things first: I don’t expect to write a new post every week. Present variables considered, the best I can hope for is to present something new every other week. I will try to include something creative in every post, if I can manage, but I will also be including a handful of updates, and maybe (if I dare) a few random thoughts as well.

Second, while I am woefully behind schedule (with regards to my summer plans), I do hope to have all parts of my MFA applications finished by summer’s end, and possibly have a short story or two written as well. These, depending on how they turn out, may find their way here. If such is the case, I will add a new page on the blog (like I did for “Gamer”).

Lastly, I’d like to take a moment for shameless plugging: if you enjoy or are encouraged by anything in this blog, would you please share it with any friends who you think might also enjoy it? While my first reason for writing is an enjoyment of the craft, my second is that I am striving to create a life from it. Yes I realize that attempting to write professionally is much like flying to the moon with only a bathtub, and that much of the work here is imperfect. Still, I’d ask that you please consider sharing these short, somewhat awkward attempts at writing. If nothing else, it might spur someone else to write better on a topic that I touch on.

Now for more poetry!

P.S. I should state that, while some poetry I write is derived from a sort of overflow of emotions, other poems are very much written in the abstract and without any foundation in my personal experience. Simply put, do not necessarily believe that a writer is telling you exactly how they feel by what they write down. We are, above all else, very good liars (for that is what a story teller is).

In the company of Shelley — Imagined primarily from considering the differences from older forms (primarily from the romantics) and the current form of ‘Spoken Word.’ In no way am I antagonizing S.W.. If I was, I would be far more direct.

“An Archaic mess of Tasteless color.”
“Old fashioned thoughts weighed down by older form.”

A younger mind might submit to such squalor;
I confess, I don’t want to just conform.
A sordid mess, that self-centered haiku.
When did the loftiest form roll in the mud?
Such vivid shades of Brown! Better on you.
The shades of gold and green – those subtle buds –
The romantic greats like marble gods!
Their eyes fixed out, their hearts awash in light.
A world alive and heightened by a verse.
Allowed to sing, to dance, to fly, then die.
As mutinous children all run away,
In the company of Shelley I will stay.

Doormat — This piece is a tad more recent that some of the other works I’ve posted. The effort was create a sort of energetic flow in the lines. You can decide on the success or failure of the attempt for yourself.

A walked on little terrier,
That’s how I feel sometimes.
Always around, and seems so sound,
He’ll help once more, its fine.

Perhaps a doormat’s more fitting
Description of my state.
No real thought is ever given
Until I start to break.

Yet muted stare, my one response,
No loud protest offered.
Instead I frown, or just look down,
No battle to offer.

So come right in with filthy feet
Or ball to make me fetch,
It’s plain to me you’ll never see
No plans of mine to catch.

A Couple of old Poems

A few small bits and pieces as I again work to reignite this old thing:

1. There  will likely not be any new stories posted for some time. My prose work will, for the next half year or so, be entirely focused on preparing a portfolio for my MFA applications.
2. That said, there will hopefully be poetry, and maybe a rant or two thrown in for good measure (because I can’t seem to avoid such for very long).
3. Also, I do plan to try and create some fashion of regularity to my posting, but that isn’t certain yet. I will need to first figure out what I plan on showing to you all.

So there you have it– a game plan for what will hopefully be a slightly more active summer. All that remains now is to give you a poem or two, so….

Sonnet 1: From Bleeding Side— This particular poem was my first weak attempt at sonnet form. I fully admit to the somewhat bland imagery– a flaw that my friend Laura was quick to point out almost two years ago. 

My crime remains, a failure to believe Your truth,
Maker, I call myself, instead of one who’s made.
A lie believed, and now I sell for naught my youth,
While cry I more from wounds that grew out of my blade.
For what?’ I ask as ruin falls where I reside
What king am I? Whose land is built beyond the night.
A lifeless lump of clay ‘til You alone decide,
A hollow shell until my eyes You chose to light.
Creative soul, hear now the truth about your King,
Our goal, to see all Heaven in imagined scene,
Is handed down from throne to cause your art to sing,
A grace to see, to tell, and then at last to mean.
Through this clear view, begin to see my fate,
With art from bleeding side my hope did He create.

Silence— Silence belongs to the category of poem fragments. They often are incomplete, but this particular one managed to feel adequate without having too complex a meaning. 

Into rocky winding song
Valley narrow, verses long
And with bleeding hands hold on
While the burden tumbles gone.
Cold refrain at valley’s head
Sing aloud until you’re dead
Perhaps one day to be read
“On smooth sheets now rest your head.”

A Few Alterations

After nearly a year of inactivity, I found myself coming back to the familiar and dusty realm of this blog. It was a royal mess (a clear indicator of the disorder that has often plagued me in creative endeavors), and for a moment I was tempted to again flee.

I originally started this blog as a means of public practice and refinement. I refuse to assume on the idea of any of an eventual public success, as the odds are greater that I will somehow fly to the Moon using my bathtub as a space shuttle. Instead, my passion rests on a love of an ideal that is both perceptible, and yet…

There was a problem, then, and it is still here as I type out these words. It corrupts my pens for seeing, and perverts the sounds I am making. In the midst of all my ideals, I find myself to be the greatest hindrance- the thing most in my way.

I didn’t start this blog thinking that I would spew forth a dozen and a half posts of misspelled rants. I didn’t initially plan to cover the walls of this space in work that was only half-cleared of debris. The problem was and is that while I continue to see and aspire for art, I am reminded that in the end I am a flawed instrument.

The purge I enacted with my return hides the evidence, sure. I can once more charge out with the ambition to create something of value, but in six months or less I will be weighed down by stones: each representing one sin I’ve committed in writing this little experiment.

It’s here, I suppose, that the change must begin. It is downright silly to pretend that I write in a way that is truly fantastic, and yet I am unwilling to quit. Instead of these two options, I’m opting for the clichéd third: a flawed but determined effort.

It’s this option that will color my content, though my effort will always center on revision. Posts may not fly out as quickly or regularly, but I will try to make them orderly and interesting (in some fashion or form).

So if you are new to this blog, welcome! If you’re one of my handful of subscribers, hello again and welcome back. If nothing else, the fire always needs kindling, right?

Ice, Run, and Permission

Come with me to the river,
The ice is broken tonight.
Shed gilded robes of comfort,
Free form of frozen future.
Water cuts like knives through veins,
No comfort from memory.
Only know the one promise,
And safety found in numbers.
The least punishment is death.
Does ridicule last that long?
But chosen paths of warfare,
Defiant claims- they all are lies.


Performance, respite.
Ascend with each step.
Reach forward to win.
Revel in limelight.
Inspect every mask.
Share with one father.
Home is the next right.


Question motives, hopes, and what my eyes are set on,
Inspect the tail, head, teeth; judge it to be wanting.
Critique and appraise, and search for any mistake.
Press and console, give words of what life really is.
The L.E.D. glow mixes well with comfort fish.
Realize the salmon is swimming upstream now,
And only one nod is needed for permission.