Keeping God in a mason jar,
watching him squirm upward.
“Worship me, worship me,”
his little head says when it peeks
from the water. “Look at all I have
done.” I shut the lid, place God
in a cabinet, and I am thankful.

FTWT – Being Blake

“See, you have to have the DRIVE and MOTIVATION,” Blake said to the audience of 6. “Because without either then you ain’t going nowhere.”

He moved over to the left side of the stage and moved his hands, but not too much. “You can have the best ideas in the world, but they don’t mean anything if you don’t hustle,” he further explained to the audience of 5.

Blake then went back to the center of the stage. “Dreams become ghosts if you don’t have a vessel for them.” He didn’t really like this line. It seemed good on paper, but once he projected it, it just seemed clunky, unnatural. Everything had to be digestible. Because when you’re a motivational speaker, there’s always a good chunk of audience that is ready to dismiss you. If you use too flowery language it comes across as suspect. You can’t be seen as a salesman. But one of them. But, he continued.

“They will haunt you. And they become agents of regret. And man, you’ve got enough to worry about,” he smiled, waiting for a laugh that didn’t come. But he did see one of them nod. And the other two were just staring at him. “Well…” on and on he went.

And soon, no one was there to listen to him. The auditorium was gone. But, he just kept speaking and speaking. “Hustle, hustle, hustle. Imagine being a crab without a shell. Do you think a crab just sits idle and dreams of having a shell? And waits for it to happen. No! The crab makes it happen!” But the auditorium wasn’t the only place that was empty. Soon, every building in the vicinity seemed to go silent. The cars left the parking lots. And no one was around to hear about dreams and crabs.

Yet, Blake was persistent. With a professional cadence, each word was articulate and properly enunciated, but without seeming too enunciated. He believed he was speaking to everyone at their level, or slightly above.

However, time passed, and when he finally finished his talk, he modestly thanked everyone and walked off stage. As soon as he started wiping his face with a nearby towel, the city started repopulating. People went back to their jobs and lives. And Blake was off to the next town to eagerly spread his wisdom.

Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday.


Pinned now to a glowing gaze
that waits on the bough.
Colder air crawls across
the balcony, but I’m still held
holding these small movements
in the barn owl’s stare.
Some animals are not regarded:
the squirrels shift as background
and we shadows lumber beneath
their trees. But the owl is a presence.
Maybe it’s the mere placement
of eyes, a face almost
that gleams the intelligence
of reach. Even from here
I note the subtle adjustments
to sight as it ponders and shifts
along the branch, seeing me.
Maybe it’s mere impatience,
waiting for my absence
so it can lunge again
at the frightened mind
shielded by the bush.
Maybe there is nothing,
just a space floating between
two similar, unknown faces
that cannot be articulated,
at least not yet. One of us
disappears, and the other
returns to moment.

Written for Eugi’s Weekly Prompt.


Today wasn’t.
Unexpected, but the end
You hoped to see something
Like the flowers in the yard,
A bird resting in the nest
It cradled. Now the sun is black.
The stars have turned away
The moon has walked away.
The earth refuses to move.
And the ocean doesn’t understand.
And you will be gone
For quite some time.
But there will be other times,
They will be negotiated
And the universe will be back
In reluctant cooperation.
Light, matter, death, gravity
Will face each other again
And work until the next silence
Or until one of them throws
Their arms in the air.
Maybe the birds will be
Allowed to return.
Maybe something else
Will be forgotten.


Never seen them.
The tiny people
That thread sun to sky,
That erect every pebble.
Generation upon generation
Building this nice, warm
Afternoon. There is no God,
Just billions of little faces
Already smaller than dust.
Ain’t never seen them. Can’t.

Some Small Poems, Tiny

Endless Effort

Rifling the day
for a word
beyond the design
of dust
and memory


Time’s Reprieve

This day mellows
into a tolerable light
where an eye can
gather itself


Song for the Evening

Notes stomp through the leaves,
horn player warps the night
awakens the bums


A Desire for Love

Low sun
Tangle of air
Nothing worthy of document
Not even your face


Another Entrance

a nothingness now
thrust into pulse,
held to a face
warped to desire



A dulled vision
vultures for a light
sealed in photograph,
only finds you.

Some poems written for #Poetryin13 on the Twitter.


The moon lined into silence
puddled into road. The long grasp
of light ripples from a now-disappearing
pebble, the only movement that moves inside
this night. The water then regains itself
and the mind steps away from sight, steps along
a road different from memory, a new warmth
that targets you.

Written for The Sunday Muse.

Something About Loss

I was so lost
And alone
Without your face
With its dancing eyes
And interesting teeth
So lost
So alone

But as I was walking
Through the loneliest desert
The sky turned dark with grey
And came
The rains
Pouring all over me
And over the barren land
And a wind came
And it became harder and harder
To keep moving

Finally, I woke-up
A tree,
The sun was bright
The sky clean
And all around me were
Big, bright flowers
Attacked by bumblebee bees

“Okay,” I said
And continued walking,
“This is fine, but I am still
Very lonely. Very alone.”
But the world didn’t care.
It grew in its beauty.
The trees sang
And birds did things in the air.
And the sun beamed its face
Across the water

Pretty soon, I became very old
And still walking. Still walking.
Still alone. And I stopped
Before a cliff. And after the cliff
Was the ocean with fish
Doing their thing.
But I was now tired
And did not know how
To swim. So I started
To cry, like the rain
From before that flooded
This world. But not as dramatic.
Just quiet, little sobs.
Small, unheard misery
That was unpleasant to look at

So I decided to go home.
“So, what’s your story,”
Asked the Uber driver.
“Oh, I am sad and lonely,”
I replied. “Ah,” the driver
Nodded and didn’t say anything
Afterwards. As I watched
The world speed through
My window, I realized
I didn’t know anything
About being lonely
Or alone, I just was.
But it didn’t matter now.
I was old. My beard was long
And my experiences,
My wisdom…it was too late
To do anything with them now.
All I had was a face
That I had long forgotten
And just a few more tears
Shaking in my heart.
Finally, I was home.
“Oh well,” I said, “oh well,”
And went back to work
The following day.


One day, walking, I nearly tripped.
It was not a stone, but squirmed.
A small mass of red. I squinted down
At the curious chunk then prodded it
With a twig. That’s when I knew
It was somebody’s heart. Sad,
Destitute, still beating on the road.
So, I did the right thing, and nuzzled
It with my foot to the side of the path,
Away so no one ends-up broken,
And continued my stride.


She stood there, standing before the glory of the snowy monolith. Mt. Nero. The world’s tallest mountain. But, Nero wasn’t always the tallest mountain. There was once a Mt. Everest which many previously sought to make their own. However, Everest became too touristy. It seemed like everyone and their grandma had managed to climb the once-mighty beast (with the help of well-equipped climbing companies.) Taking-on Everest eventually lost all of its lustre and meaning. It disgusted Jayna. But she had an idea: she was going to make a new mountain. And it was going to be hers.

After purchasing a sizable chunk of Mongolia, her new terraforming company went to work on shaping her dream into reality. After months of retwisting the land, there it was. Mt. Nero. The behemoth scraped against sky, its peak disappearing into clouds. And now, she was going to be the first person to climb the world’s tallest mountain.

Jayna Hammath, a somewhat self-made billionaire who made her fortune doing something new with emails, died at the age of 34. It was a mysterious, tragic death. No one expected her to slip in the shower. However, this did not mean her dream was over. Even after her death, she started her ascent. According to a last-minute amendment to her will, her body was to be remotely operated. Soon, her wish was going to be fulfilled. Finally.

Her body made it about a quarter of the way before disappearing. There was a team that was traveling with her, but they claimed to not know what happened. Many speculated that the body malfunctioned and spontaneously combusted. Others thought that the crew became lazy.

Eventually, others were allowed on Jayna’s mountain. Nero was a tougher climb than Everest, but soon a chairlift was installed. Everyone and their grandma was now able to reach the end of the sky and behold the glow of the earth below. Then go home, talk about it briefly, and disappear into sleep.

Written for Thimbleful Thursday.