Category: Poetry

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Everyone is Equal, But Some Are More Equal Than Others

In death, we treat everyone the sameUndeserved of the textbookdefinition of respect, in life. The ones we slurred for political opinions,judged harshly for the dead bedrooms,pitied the victims you stompedas you walked your Yellow Brick Road. Conversations drop an octavewhen the obituary is published.Truth benders erupt from the woodworkPraising the…

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Up to Eleven

I haven't a song in my heartAll I hear is the dull roar of broken dreamsPounding in my head, steam trainIt's a wonderful world of colorEverything is in black & whiteUnderdetermined to keep moving forwardSailing off a cliff into oblivionI want freedom from the old waysBefore the end daysSplayed out,…

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Kiss of Def

Forever the sickestThis is how I see myselfA little bit cynical, always a miracleI learned early on,Depend on no one but yourselfCall it a front, call it a shieldAin't no one but me stepping out on the fieldLife is but a dream, but loneliness is my realitySolitude / platitudes /…

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nils peterson, willow glen library, december 2016

Nils Peterson at the Willow Glen Library, December 2016

I had the pleasure of seeing former Santa Clara County poet laureate Nils Peterson at the Willow Glen library in December 2016.

What I enjoyed about his overall style, compared to other poetry readings I’ve been to, is that he repeated himself. He would recite a poem or a thought, and repeat it, in case we didn’t hear him for the first time. After he would do that, he would take it one step further and make comments on it, as though it were a dialogue between speaker and attendee. It helped the audience comprehend what he was saying. To me, that was a fun and engaging way to present the material, rather than intoning on it like the work was sacred. He made the poetry accessible in this way.

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always at war with myself

a constant battleto march to the beat of their drum. fighting a noble war, the away team don't even know i am here. things got to get better fall in line, march 2, 3, 4, don't cry your own tears at night. tried to play the game. lost the plot.…

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The Transitory Nature of Self

It seems as though I am in a constant state of transition.People come, people go, but nothing ever really changes.Perpetual motion until a greater force propels me in another direction.I ache to find stability in earthquake friendly regions.Why do I open myself to such heartache?I must've been a masochist in…

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