Category Archives: My Work

Stuff that I write

Bury Me

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Mother feeds me, she seeds me.
She warms her children, draws them strong.
We listen to her poison
And let the praise erode with sin
‘Til we have nothing left within.

Bury me ’til I’m suffocating.
Bury me ’til I can’t breathe in.
Bury me ’til I can’t see the sun,
‘Til all I can see is the Son.

Mother tells me to prune her garden
And calls me shepherd, carer.
Forget the stick, here’s a bloom.
Bury that heart beside this flower,
‘Til it has all your power.

Bury me ’til I’m suffocating.
Bury me ’til I can’t breathe in.
Bury me ’til I can’t see the sun,
‘Til all I can see is the Son.

Bury me

Then set me free as the Lion
To tear up her garden
And roar at the gnomes.
Give me claws, give me teeth
Give me all Mother took from my sheath.

Bury me ’til I’m suffocating.
Bury me ’til I can’t breathe in.
Bury me ’til I can’t see the sun,
‘Til all I can see is the Son.

Bury me

Then shout my name
And tell them my might.
Silence her lies
And give me your sight.
Brand me with truth
That I might be a light.

Shout my name so I may scream your own
And guide them from her garden
To your great throne.

Muddied Warrior

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A knight in shining armor
Is wanted by none.
What use is a warrior
Who hasn’t walked in the mud?

Pain is a magic
All and awe inspiring
Until you start inquiring
And realize the world is not tiring
That the pain is not umpiring

Doubt is a lens
That makes an anthill a mountain in your eyes.
But if you step through the disguise
You see your heel can squash its size

Fear is but a messenger
It warns you of the bourn
You were made to leave and never mourn

When you are thrown to the wolves
Do like the ancient ones have done
And make them hunt for your prey’s blood

 
 
 
 

And as a look behind the curtain, here’s the first draft of this poem:

Pain is magic
All and awe inspiring
Until you catch the wielder in his tricks
And you realize you’ve been fooled
That the rest of the world moves on
And the pain is but a sideshow.

Fear is but a messenger
Warning you of the limits
You were born to push.

Doubt is a lens
That makes an anthill a mountain in your eyes.
But if you take the step
You will find you can put it beneath your heel.

When they throw you to the wolves
Be like the ancients
And make them hunt for you.

A knight in shining armor
Is wanted by none.
What use is a warrior
Who hasn’t walked in the mud?

From every arrow which you are shot
Take the head and add it to your scales
Til you have the armor to take the world

Fiction on the Wall

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All my life I’ve been staring at this wall
And reading the writing, a story for the ages
Full of heartache and loss
With a villainous hero
Who plays the mentor and the fool.

I’ve read about a battle for change
With victory a concept
True only in lies
That left him broken and falling,
Devastated by the loss
Of who might have been.

And no story is true
Without a love that no one wants
And a demon that no one hates.
And where’s the fun
If the hero has friends
When he needs them most?

These words etched into stone
Tell of a possession
That started as a deal
And ended without a soul.
And of a prison that none can see
But through the words of a book in green.

There is a character who is not a monster
And another who doesn’t know her.
One who speaks but they don’t hear
And one that has his books and wisdom.
There is one who is trapped in a jar
And who wants a tattoo on his sleeve.

At the end is an ellipsis
That moves farther down with each passing day.
The longer I stay
The more this fiction is written on this wall.

Statue of Bronze

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A war between copper and tin
Shredding a statue of bronze
And leaving it wonderin’
If it is the sum or if it is the parts
Or if it is a being of a different skin.

It is frozen in place,
In the corner of a garden,
Its eyes fixed on a sacred base
And the angel of gold stood on its face

With every hand placed on her skin
The molecules of his within
Break apart, not how they’ve been,
Until he fears that he will melt
To a puddle, when it’s felt
Will leave a burning and a welt
On all who notice where he dwelt.

He pleads the sculptor of his life
To keep his shape set through his strife
And turn him from his golden queen
Or lift her eyes to be his wife

Operation Mirage Part 3

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Be sure to read Part 1 here
and Part 2 here
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
 

The team is clearly elite.  

I rub my bloody hands together over my spare clothes as I watch them.

Each of them has a unique style different than the short-cropped hair and clean shaven appearance of most agents.  One of them sports a bald head with a massive beard sprouting from his chin.  Another has his head shaved into low and wide double mohawks.  The woman in the group has blonde braids down the sides of her head that connect into one large braid in the back; the top of her head is dyed black.  She and the youngest of the men have tattoos like circuitry running up one side of their necks and curling around their brows.  Another of the men has a similar tattoo running up the shaved side of his head, but his is intermixed with numbers and images of various weapons, both modern and historical.
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Operation Mirage Part 2

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Be sure to read Part 1 here
And when finished here, read Part 3 here
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
 

I glance at the hand that stops me in the hallway to the agent bunkroom, then move my eyes up the arm attached to it and to the face of its owner.  A sheen of sweat glistens under long, black hair.  Frey examines my face.  I place my red fingers over her clean ones and hold them there for a few moments before dropping my arm back to my side.
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Operation Mirage Part 1

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Blood is on my hands. Red rivers run through canyons that make up my palm print. It pools in the crooks of my curled fingers, creating lakes of a man that used to be. Drops overflow and cascade over the backs of my knuckles where they draw together until they are strong enough to leap into the air. They fall one by one between my boots, where they hit the ground and explode as scarlet stars over broken pieces of white concrete.
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A Wind Dancer’s Lead Part 3

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Last part of the story. Catch up with Part 1 and Part 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone sprang into action at once. A blast of fire hit Pross in the face as he raised his sword. As Serk shot a bolt of lightning from his staff, an arrow embedded itself in his back. Scrie’s Healer met the same end as the Wizard. Charles found his head cleaved by the elven Wind Dancer. A burst of fire from the ground sent the sweet stench of Key’s and Lep’s seared flesh into the air.
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A Wind Dancer’s Lead Part 2

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Be sure to read Part 1 here
Then, when you are finished with this part, read the end of the story in Part 3
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bight jerked into a sitting position, hands shooting to his neck. A fire raged from the unbroken skin. Wrestling with the grimace on his face, he leaned back into his seat. The pull on the back of his head lessened as slack returned to the wire attached to him. A sigh left his mouth, taking with it the cold bite of the knife. He lowered his hand and opened his eyes.
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The Floor of an Open Forum

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On the floor of an open forum,
A hundred voices without decorum,
Drowning out the truth with distortion
And creating a chorus of extortion,
Beat me down and leave me imploring
The mouths of masters to break through the pouring.

The words of a thousand betrayers,
Advice hidden beneath the layers,
Are like rotten tomatoes to be thrown
Between each part, all my own.
Caught by the crossfire of my mind
I fall to my knees dumb and blind
Heckled through thoughts undefined
By a hundred voices without decorum
On the floor of an open forum.