“Enter not”

The door invites in appearance

with its warm, enchanting hue

and beautiful, shining

golden accessories.

One might walk up to it,

engage it in conversation,

ask to pass through it.

“Enter not,” it says in reply,

its hard, wood self

stiff with loyalty

to those behind it.

“Instead, stare up me,

think of the opportunities

that lie behind,

the people you could meet,

the things you can do.

But do not dare touch me–

do not knock

and do not run your fingers

along my beautiful paint.”

The door stays steady,


its color aggressive and its handle

full of metallic bite

and strength.

“Go away for now,”

commands the door.

“You may come back,

but you many never come in.”

Photo by Matteus Silva from Pexels


sleep alone

The ceiling vent pumping cold air into the room

groans and rattles and disturbs.

There is so much space in here,

more than can be used

by one person.

It’s almost as if

humans weren’t made

to sleep alone.

The pillows have gone flat so quickly,

so why were they so expensive?

A philodendron propagates

in a mug of water.

Hopefully, that new leaf

will unfurl soon.

The alarm clock is wrong;

its time changed when the power went out

for just a second this afternoon.

Who knows when it will be changed back.

Photo by Carlos Caamal from Pexels


a mostly empty room

Glow in the dark shooting stars

stuck to the ceiling

provide more comfort than any nightlight.

The closet is too dark and too far away

to be certain of its contents.

There is a soft and fluffy rug covering the hardwood floor

that will be a great sensation

to toes as they touch down in the morning.

Curtains hang and block out all of the dark outside.

The mirror reflects only the blankness

of the opposite wall.

A stereo sits on a dresser

in a corner of the room.

Its silence is louder than anything else,

even the ticking.

The clock on the wall must be an hour behind.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

A Cream-Colored Mind

thick and languid

A cream-colored mind,

thick and languid–

in desperate need of some

deep and gritty caffeine

in order to jazz, to liven.

Perhaps that jolt is all that will be needed

to fill the brain with wondrous things

never before contained.

Maybe that will be a buzz

that will can awaken the a kaleidoscopic,

psychotropic colors and patterns

to cut through the pervasive fog.

Continue reading “A Cream-Colored Mind”

How Much Good?

More. Do more.

[setting: a seemingly overgrown garden]

She kneels, stooped over the majestic greenery,
sweat building upon her brow.
She doesn’t take the time to wipe it off.
This garden needs tending urgently.

Was that a healthy leaf?
Was that really a weed?
The sun, beating down with its overwhelming heat and light,
doesn’t give her the opportunity to reflect.

Continue reading “How Much Good?”


I realized that I would never be enough
to brighten the whole world.

I thought I wanted
to be the sun,
the source of light,
the source of life,
the thing that beckons in the day
and cannot stand the darkness
so much that it has to leave
when the blackness of night encroaches.

But when I tried to fill
the space with light,
I realized that I would never be enough
to brighten the whole world.

Then, I wanted to be a star,
to twinkle and illuminate
in an otherwise dark sky,
to provide just enough light
to prevent fear,
to prevent stumbling,
to be the thing that wayward travelers
use to guide themselves to safety.

But when I tried to shine
a pinprick of light,
I was easily outshone
by the fellow stars around me.

Then, I wanted to be the moon,
the shiny globe that wanes and waxes,
that has the chance to disappear
but always just waits
and always returns,
to be the reflector of light
and illuminate the night sky
in my own right.

But I wasn’t sure how to reflect the light.
I’m still not sure how to reflect the light.
I hope that one day
I can find a way
to reflect the light.

Photo by Dương Nhân


Left Hand

Not my fault, but it’s my duty

The heel of my hand drags along the page,
smearing inky blackness as it goes.
The words are marred, some blotted out,
and those that remain appear dirty,
marked with the smudges of their brothers.
The offending surface–that skin–
is just as blackened as the page.

I sigh and rise from my seat
to wash off the dark pigment,
knowing full well that much of it
has already seeped beneath the surface,
staining the tissue with gray.

Without that cleanse, though,
I know that I will continue to smear the ink
on everything that I touch,
leaving yet another trail of destruction in my wake.
So I lather with soap, and I scrub as best I can,
determined not to let circumstances that I cannot help–
that I did not choose–
inflict harm on those around me.

Sometimes, that is the only motivation
I can find
to do the cleaning I know
I need to do.