Here you can find all the original works of poetry published through the years! These poems have been written in classes, for live readings, or for fun! Many of these pieces were inspired by the works of the late great Mary Oliver. Enjoy!

3008 Stoney Creek Dr.

The soft rays from the Sunday afternoon sun crawl over the house like a prayer of its own,
Whispering to the walls and wooden floors a golden secret that will wash the paint away
ever so subtly over the years.

You’re 10 years old and don’t know what anger really means yet,
At least not in any way that matters.

Our little legs hang over the couch together,
Singing a nursery rhyme or the song that carries your name to an audience of the crickets in
the floorboards and the old dog next door that can still hear our voices through the sounds
of the summer afternoon outside.

It will stick to the paint,
And etch our names for the next owners who will have to roll over the washed-out yellows
in a shade of white that is blinding.

It is an artifact to this time together,
Past long distance phone calls and pleasantries
Does the smoke you fill your lungs with now taste the same as the smoke from the grill that
filled the kitchen in the summer?
Do you see our mother in the exhale?

Do you remember when the dust used to catch on the light as we lay on the floor of the living room?
The carpet sticking to our backs,
Our eyes closed to Springsteen floating in from our parents in the kitchen.

It populates the front seat of your car.
The lyrics tattooed on our hands out the window
Catch the breeze in our fists as we drive, somewhere without destination, somewhere
We’ll recognize ourselves in the pictures on the mantel again

June

When June calls in yellow dresses and unheard messages collecting on the machine,
I answer.

And when the afternoon sun gets to be too much I hang the phone back on the receiver and sign my name on the checks tacked to the refrigerator,
Threatening to follow the dotted yellow lines until they end somewhere calmer-
Somewhere with a big yard and a tree that kisses kitchen windows for June to hide from the sun under.

A longing for domesticity draws the nights out slow and sweet like honey,
A need for a home and a place to rest my head and wake with it not clouded.
Not sure why the hands that washed me fail to be gentle towards me now,
Not sure why the kitchen sink basin won’t carry away the sins that callous.

When I wake dreaming of motherhood next,
It will be June again
Who hangs my youth out on clothespins to dry
In the soft dance of the early morning sun through the leaves.

I will meet her when I know the answers to questions that weigh down my mind and make my hands feel heavy to hold,
When the painted mirrors feel familiar to us again.