Bloom: A Poem

your shoes are cute.
they’re made of leather and look new.

i wonder if
you’re purposefully
trying to attract people like me to you
it was a coincidence
that made me think wow.

if you turned your head to me
i probably wouldn’t turn mine back.
i’m always afraid that your eyes
are filled with disgust,
especially when they look down and away
when we pass
in silence.

i want to not feel bad
because my friend used to like you and
i want to know
if she still does so i can know if it’s okay.

you remind me of all the things
i wish i had
but don’t;
all the mental scrapbooks
of memories i could fill
with someone like you.

you are the image of the tantalizing,
that which i see
but cannot touch.

you are bloom.


Dear Mom

Well, it looks like I’m alive for another day.

My buddy Amos, a medic from England,

told me that he thinks the lucky soldiers

are the dead ones.

He says there are guys whose

whole faces cave in,

like a sink hole or a popped souffle.

All this gas we shoot at each other

is what does that.


There are some

who get blinded by the gas.

They have to walk home with their hands on

one another’s shoulders,

because they can’t see where they’re going.


Amos also told me that he had to

saw of someone’s entire leg,

then go back and saw off the other one.

The man cried when he woke back up.

He also mentioned shell shock.

He knew an Italian once, who had impaled

a German through the brain with his bayonet.

And the poor guy always

felt the bayonet going through his own brain.

The guy screamed,

Amos told me,

like nothing he’d ever heard.


Down here in the trench,

life is pretty miserable. I don’t know why

they ever thought this was a good idea,

because it was a terrible idea.

Every day, I hide behind a sheet of metal

and I blast bullets like no one’s business.

I can’t imagine how many people I kill very day,

which is probably for the best.


Rats live down here

like it’s the plague or something. It might be.

They eat our stuff and they chew on our toes.

Yesterday a cough started going around.

There’s a lot of

standing water.

I saw some of my comrades

get blown to bits

when someone chucked a grenade over the fence.

I saw their faces. They were terrified.


The worst part of everything is no man’s land.

I want to meet the guy

who called it that first,

because he hit it right on the money.

I’ve seen good people go out there and

they don’t come back.


In no man’s land,

bullets fall like rain, and the gas makes the fog.

If you don’t choke to death,

you get shot down like the dog you are.

And if you do choke to death,

they’ll probably shoot you anyway just for good measure.

The trees have dried up and died

because of what happens in the fighting,

so there’s nowhere to hide.

You run out there,

pull a pin, chuck it as far as you can, say your prayers,

and meet your maker.


Of course, sometimes, I wonder

why I’m here.

Not just enlisting, which I regret,

but why any of us are here.

Why this war is here at all.

People I’ll never know wanted to be surrounded by

more people just like them.

Countries I’ll never visit stockpiled armies

that they probably wouldn’t have needed,

and they took over a hemisphere and fought about it

when they thought their slice wasn’t big enough.

(Remember when my brother and I

did that with a cake

at my seventh birthday party?)

They made promises to beat up anyone they hit their allies.

And then someone I’ll never meet

shot down a king or a duke or something,

which everyone got mad about.


I must admit that it doesn’t feel worth it.

Losing my life for my country

doesn’t feel so noble, and so I have to ask Uncle Sam

why he told me it was. The yanks came,

but now they want to go back.


With love,


Your son

I Need Someone to Talk To


What kind of person do you see when you read this phrase? Distressed? Anxious? Sad? Alone?

What if you can be so happy that you desperately need to talk to someone? I know it can happen because it happened to me today. Let’s say, hypothetically, you are closer to a chance of a chance with someone you have no chance with. Now, hypothetically, that would be very exciting for someone who has very little, let’s say, romantic experience. What does this hypothetical person do with all this happiness he/she isn’t used to? He/she needs someone to pour his/her emotions into, and in that case she needs someone to talk to just as much as the person who, hypothetically, just broke up with the same person that the original hypothetical person had a hypothetical chance with.

Confused? You’re not alone. But let’s just say that extremely positive feelings are just as important as extremely negative feelings, even if we’re generally supposed to respect one more than the other.

So…yeah. Love your happy side.

Ciao for now,


Book Review: The Witch Collector

15842190In the evening, I picked up a kindle, excited to read The Witch Collector Part One by Loretta Nyhan. My fingers flew by the screen and time passed, and eventually it was three in the morning. I finished the book first thing the next day.

The book drew me in from the first page, which set up the desire to learn more about the characters and their situation. Nyhan describes a witch’s funeral and mentions several of the story’s key players, making the reader ask questions like “Why?” and “How?” about the workings of the witch coven and the mysterious death. And this was just the prologue.

Before long, I was tied up in the story of teenage witch Breeda and her bizarre relocation to Chicago. An unexpected disappearance, the new coven she meets, and a strange family history give the story a set of characters and motives to keep your eyes glued to the words.

The only thing that disappoints me about the book is that I have to wait for Part Two to come out!

Ciao for now,


P.S. the Witch Collector Part Two comes out in May, so the disappointment isn’t going to last very long!

i wonder: A Poem


i wonder,

what is it that makes a horizon so distant?

it’s where the sun sleeps every night

but we can never lay our own heads there.

i wonder when

we’ll be able to feel each other’s fingers

touching each other,

looking out into the orange

at the end of the day, and ask,

why wasn’t the world always like this?

i wish i could point to the people now

who would look at a difference and

beg in their prayers,

why am i different?

i would point to them and say because

our differences make us similar.

i would point to them and with the other hand

take all their hands,

and we would sit along the shore and wonder this:


is the horizon so far away? and

what will it take to swim there?

ice cream breakup: A Poem


i wonder what it would be like

to have someone like you

i bet you would sing me songs

and make my dreams come true

i bet you would send me flowers

just because you wanted to

and i would never forget

that i had someone like you


i wonder what it would be like

to look into your eyes

to laugh a little and blush a lot

i know it would be nice

to think about your smiles

and let out a few sighs

to feel loved in your arms

and pretty in your eyes


i wonder what it would be like

if you laughed at what i said

if we sat next to each other on the floor

with your head on my head

if we passed notes quietly

and loved each word we read

if we had entire discussions

where not one word was said


you just have to see me first


something tells me you would be

an ice cream breakup

if i ever got the chance

if i was so lucky for a date

or even a school dance

if i could get a conversation

or just a sideways glance

i wonder what it feels like

to have your hand in my hand

i wonder what it feels like

to write our names in the sand

and i only wish i knew

what it’s like to love you

Breathing: A Poem


The city in the clouds glows

at sunset.

The air is thin as it

goes through your lips and teeth,

the clouds dampen you with icy shards.

They have wind machines for sidewalks

that push you up when you want to fall.

I lived there

when I was very young,

and always wondered what the ground felt like.

There was a whisper, once,

of an elusive edge somewhere far from the heart of the city,

a long walk that way.

So I got granola bars, cans of beans,

a pocket knife, a lighter,

sunglasses, a scarf, a hat,

in a bag.

I put my feet in front of each other,

one after the other,

like we learn before thoughts of walking long walks,

to find my escape.

The wind was always there.

It held me back, like the fingers that clawed

into my arms as I walked.

My toes shuffled over thin air.

And the sky glowed at sunset.