The Worded Mind

I am a husband and father; occupations which consume most of my life.  In my free time, however, I am a writer; this passion of mine shall constitute the majority of this blog.  Herein, you shall find a collection of my poetry and other writings.  I welcome feedback and comments, though I cannot guarantee a response.  It is enough for me that you read my words, and perhaps gain something ethereal or even spiritual in the process.


Posted by on March 15, 2015 in Uncategorized


I Hear The Stars

I hear the stars;
their fires crackling
in the distant void of space,
the screams they make
haunt the heavens as they burn.

They are dear to me;
these distant stars,
as close to my soul as breath,
like long lost friends
gathered now for my internment.

Honey sweetened air rises;
the nectar of Earth’s breath,
a gentle vesper wind
which I had ne’er before known,
now lifts my eyes to see the stars.

I hear them crying;
as if in pain, they wail,
upon the strong back of Pleiades,
they cry for their aging dilemma,
and thus, mirror my own tears.

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Posted by on February 7, 2018 in My Poetry, Uncategorized



Pillow Of Winds

The old man, I say, was kind;
unerringly sweet in his nature,
’twas life, as much was to him,
any mere act of heartfelt joy;
as if ’twere a pillow of winds
which lust for solace of home
among warmer rushes of air,
seeking respite in his hands.

Nor, was he prone to dream,
illuminate his own life illusions;
pragmatic, at hand and mind,
life as it came, nothing more;
of what the next hour of a day
might then rest upon his soul,
did, in his respite, but wonder.

And if ’twere to die in his hand,
that elusive white dove of hope,
would his heart then turn away,
dying more with each breath lost;
and ‘ere had he a mind to lend,
instead, simply, freely exist,
as but a natural land formation
wrought cold upon the Earth.

Now, died, as he had lived,
obscure and unnoticed, alone,
returned to waiting clouds,
those which had borne him,
now soft, a pillow of winds
lay serene, in quiet slumber;
e’er shall he search the sun
for that elusive white bird;
and each ending of the day,
find, once more within him,
some flame left unnoticed,
and he, as inconsequential
as the life, growth and death
of all the blades of grass in the world.

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Posted by on January 20, 2018 in My Poetry, Uncategorized



As In A Dream

Of her eyes, one can only wonder,
how vague in tender expression,
yet piercing in her gaze, is she;
in her eyes, my moves echoed,
from mere caress o’er her thighs,
to spittle that clings to my lips,
left in haste by her hungry kiss.

Of her flesh, undeniable in form,
as if gods painted silk upon her,
robust as a willow-nettled vale;
upon her flesh, waged from her,
or forms of a cloud by its design,
now amorphous in her awares,
rising with every offered breath.

Of her hand, in my tender grasp,
she now so willingly lends to me,
‘ere submitted flesh upon flesh;
that she has weight in her breath,
clinging to my gaze for acquiesce,
her unfettered abandon plays on,
as in a dream, so easily extolled.

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Posted by on January 7, 2018 in My Poetry, Uncategorized



And Like Rain

And like rain, she had worth;
not a squall, so wild appears,
to cleanse the bitter earth,
but soft, as frugal tears;

as if the sky did but weep,
then, aware of her release,
now closed its eyes to sleep,
as her tears drift with ease,

for one last mist of sorrows;
and like rain, stippled landing,
on mirrored glass she borrows,
of puddles, still left standing;

‘ere tread soft her footfalls,
now hazed with water shed,
rippled o’er her garden walls,
years of pain, now long dead;

reflections of a sullen moon,
glazed o’er her weary eyes,
her tears but fell too soon,
and like rain, she left the skies.

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Posted by on December 22, 2017 in My Poetry, Uncategorized



I Name Her Sorrow

This dulcet girl, without spoil,
solaced, and thus, unrendered,
‘ere laid still on garden soil,
now barren, and untendered;
how sweet, and yet, unruly,
in her heart, she but cries;
how still and soft, truly,
such vastness in her eyes;
as if the shedding of tears
could but cleanse stain’d breast
of her longing, e’er my years
would but scald with unrest;
tho’ bare winds held aloft,
with gossamer winged tips,
could taste no more, but soft,
the elder wine of her lips,
salted now by her long sorrow;
she but cries alone, still,
‘ere she, in wan of morrow,
would but her kisses spill;
thus uttered soft, but no more
shall e’er I set forth my acclaim,
would I speak to her, my adore,
my intent, her whispered name.

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Posted by on December 20, 2017 in My Poetry, Uncategorized



This Mistress I Call Rain

I speak oft of my mistress rain,
she is much alive with caress,
e’en in her restless slumber
so long among the clouds;
that she has touched me
in my most broken moments,
and called to my lost aware
her sweet dance of arousal;
that she wears upon me
like the sun upon the earth,
and I am, thus, a better man,
both in lustful, wanton need,
and beholden of her tears;
my drear has but an end,
‘ere hers then slowly begins,
and in such vague solitude,
holds me ‘gainst her breast;
with my name on her breath,
‘ere I am wiser and wanton
for her call, or summoning;
this mistress I call rain,
she does play upon me,
and I, her vagabond jester,
fall kindly to her submission.

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Posted by on December 10, 2017 in My Poetry



This Is My Sky

This is my sky.
I may call it mine
because I own this moment.

I, alone, am standing here
at the very break of dawn,
awake and alive to the world,
and yet, am I still in dreaming.

I, alone, gaze out across
this newly dawned horizon,
with its fresh colors of the day,
still crisp among the misty air.

I, alone, own this breath,
and I watch this new sunrise,
cognizant of its daily chore,
yet accepting it as virgin light.

I, alone, choose the moment
which burns itself in memory,
that break of day now mine,
which no one can steal away.

This is my sky.
I claim it as a whole,
but only as part of this moment.

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Posted by on November 11, 2017 in My Poetry, Uncategorized