I can’t write. It’s not working for me right now. I think it’s because I’ve got things locked up tight. There’s too much going on, too much that has to get done, and too many petty grievances. If I let things go, only a crater will remain. Perhaps I can send out invitations to those who annoy?

I do find water painting to be a helpful outlet. The Buddha Board from my son is one of the best gifts.

Do people leave craters when they explode? I’ve things buried deep and that energy has to go somewhere. It’s not going into creative endeavours (except perhaps for my gardening). Perhaps I can funnel some towards reading, commenting, and reposting? Reviewing old works is fun if one turns compulsive and critical judgement aside. And I miss hearing about other people’s lives. Especially now that it’s summer (northern hemisphere). Much good happens in the summer.

(What was interesting to me about this poem was the smoking. It’s nearly three years since I quit. Or maybe two. I don’t tend to keep track of these kinds of anniversaries. Done is done when it comes to the negative.)

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spring morning (3/19/2015)

i sit on the front steps of my porch in the warmth of the spring sun, hunched up with my legs drawn to my chest, smoking a cigarette.


the birds are unrelentingly and annoyingly cheerful with their chirps and chatter and the wind is making the leaves crackle and dance and fall onto the freshly mown lawn with the missed stripe running down the middle that keeps drawing my eye and my ire


it’s a typical spring morning at my end of the cul-de-sac.


my across-the-street neighbour in the peach stucco house with the piles of junk hidden under falling down tents that lean up against the garage and add nothing to the curb appeal is ranting about something or other at the top of his lungs but not video games since i don’t hear “fuck yous” interspersed with the bird song.


i wonder how the birds and the wind and the neighbour would react 

if i gave into the impulse chasing round my brain 

and screamed out into the morning noise 


shut up shut up shut up!


i want it quiet. 

i want the birds and the leaves and the wind and the neighbour and the unrelenting thoughts circumnavigating my skull to stop so i can sit in real quiet and not the pretend quiet of a sunny morning in suburbia which is anything but.

so i can sit on the front steps of my porch in the warmth of the spring sun, hunched up with my legs drawn to my chest, smoking a cigarette.


in silence.

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In case you want to pop over and see the OG in all its Tumblr glory at brighteyespoetry.

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Header credit: Jozef Durok, Skeena River, British Columbia