Stepping on loose bricks

Stepping on loose bricks
The clatter of cobble barely interrupting the cool night’s sighs
Those faint happy clicks
A worn sole providing the shove needed to help the stone home



The one you could change for.
Too good for you, you knew.
Desirable all the same,
Yet impossible.
Something you couldn’t have,
Had to pretend not to want.
But mutual,
Dual secrecy
That was plain to see.

Then eventually,
Unfulfilled and forgotten.

Capricious Concord

Cold sky leaked in through frosted panes,
Gently pouring its glow into the empty chamber.

A crow moaned inharmoniously,
Severing the soft hush of the atmosphere’s breath.

Her uncovered toes flirted with the shingled edge,
Shimmering strands dancing about her face.

Dark eyes watched from within the willow,
Whose pale jade limbs flickered nervously in the wind.

The air begged for companions as a distant clock sounded,
Persuading two dissimilar creatures to take flight.

Leafy fingers flittered in discreet protest;
Crumbs of asphalt littered the earth below.

Black feathered sails floated along the cloudy current,
Hovering high above a fragile and broken doll.

The Lady Catelyn

It’s been far too long since I’ve written or posted anything. Finally, after three in the morning on what is still Monday night for me, inspiration for a poem struck as I finished a particularly bloody and significant chapter of George R. R. Martin’s A Storm of Swords. This is the first draft; changes may come. But I must warn you, if you have any intention of reading the book series or watching HBO’s Game of Thrones, do not read this enormous spoiler of a poem. You will certainly regret it and probably hate me for your mistake. I guess you could say this is my interpretation of one of the novel’s particular events.

The Lady Catelyn

The grief
Pierced her heart like
The dagger
Carved her hands, and
The tears
Drenched her face while
The ache
Engulfed her soul with

Memories of her sweet young boys
That were no longer,
Thoughts of her darling poor daughters
Who were lost to her,
Longing for her beloved
Who was naught but bones and dust,
Vision of her remaining son
Who lay punctured and leaking rust.

Each hurt was a wicked claw reaching and clutching,
Ripping her love asunder as
Fate leered at her mockingly, refusing
To grant even a single wolf permission to howl at the autumn moon,
Each fiber of the pack shredded and cast down
To drown in the flooded rivers
Of blood surging from her throat, choking off her screams
And laughter.

Whitman’s “Beginning My Studies”

While reading a PDF selection titled “How to Read a Poem” for my English 340 / Studies in Poetry course, I came across something that caused me to have an epiphany of sorts.

Walt Whitman’s poem “Beginning My Studies” was one of twenty-six he wrote to introduce his major work, a single book he had been working on his whole life.

The feeling he describes in this poem, the feeling of loving the idea of just starting out so much that he does not want to move forward, is exactly how I feel when I start working on a new story. Perhaps this is why I have difficulty completing what I hope would become novels. When inspiration strikes, I absolutely love sitting down with my laptop to begin typing out a new idea. It’s moving past that beginning I have trouble with, and this must be because I “linger with pleasure over the ecstatic beginning.”