Adelaide

I remember wearing white when pop gave me away,

We sang and danced all through the night to

songs radios would play.

Black was next to lacey white,

and promises were made,

next to the old willow tree

in the city of Adelaide.

Summers passed on legs like redwoods, 

snails on apple trees,

We flew the flights to Egypt,

walked the forests of Belize.

Until the call of bedsheets caught us
bright and wandering astray,

Then we made another life,

A little girl named Adelaide.

She's a woman older now,

With babies of her own.

The sixty notches on the wall

told us how much she'd grown.

I'm a sick and lonely bird,

taking the path you made,

They'll all be at our graves on Sunday

playin' Adelaide.

The Anchor and the Shell

Look onward past the silhouette of death

I will not flinch when midnight strikes my heart

and calls upon my soul to find a home

in empty vessels of the galaxy.

Perhaps I'll find some warmth upon the moon

In craters kept so clean they sparkle wide

A field mouse buried once in cliffside walls

is now a soul so pure it needn't hide.

My heart was once a solid piece of me,

Now dead, it rots while buried brown and still.

But spirit flies from anyone with eyes

to abandon the anchor and the shell.

The Vast Verde

The other day my friends and I came across the most beautiful place on earth after adventuring in the woods (seriously, I really think it was). It was once a slate quarry, now a small pond buried at the end of a really steep hill. This place was just magical. I walked onto a strip of land surrounded by walls of bluish-green slate and a lake of dark green water. The mysterious yet bright and fantasy-like appearance of this place inspired me to reach into the depths of my mind and write this poem. Ode (kind of) to one of my favorite places on the planet (SO FAR)!

Beneath the quarry wall

in the middle of the vast verde

I dined on starlight

And drank the reflections

of the drowning bugs.

When riddles sink heaviest,

I cast them to the other side

So reach them, I cannot

without a submarine

pilot, or crew.

I pick up silky stones 

and tie them to writhing worms.

I couldn't shed a tear.

Now they'll come to know

what it feels like after it rains.














P.S. I am a pro-worm individual, no worms were harmed in the making of this poem...