Category Archives: Poetry

all a moon has ever meant

call me unexpectedly
because you heard; read; saw
something so beautiful
that you must share it with me
because, you say,
it could only be lovelier
if it were a part of me, too


Land Ahead

The anchors of our hearts brought us through the daunting billows of tumultuous times,
where we now have torn down,
brick by chain
and chain
the imprisoning hesitations of diving into each other’s very souls.
Your words, like waves, wash over me and recede,
leaving a feeling of profound okayness,
an overwhelming rightness
on the shores of my spirit.
my chaotic habits and anxious inhibitions
and sink
amongst the shipwrecks,
tangle in the seaweed,
and in time become forgotten in the

All this way
no compass on board,
yet I see land ahead.
And when our toes  meet the shore
and our lungs secure the sky of the world
we won’t have a clue where we are.

Exhaling all that we have within us,
we will rest in the peace
that it doesn’t matter.

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Show me your scars from the
into them.
And if you would join me, we couldwould stroll along the
that lie beneath, as secret passages.

Like pheonix tears,
our words kisses love
where we’re sore,
where the skin’s rubbed raw
from wringing our hands
(sometimes with our hearts in them)

And as the world begins to mist, you’ll say that kissing in the rain has always
   intrigued you
and I’ll agree there’s an appeal,
but I’ll confess that I prefer how
 close you have to hold me
to share an umbrella.

A Work of Art

They say that art
isn’t about how it looks,
it’s about how it makes us feel.
When you called me a work of art,
this is what I thought of.

That doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would.


wash over me
i fear not
the erosion
let the
future scientists
take their
soul samples
to figure out
what happened
was there
and when you
go away
let me
the residue
left behind
is a choice
a souvenir
the moment
i want you
full force
direct hit
i can handle
the capricious
gusts of wind
causing the battering
of sometimes
and then
you’re a story
late night
near closing
dueling tales
of near-misses
that become
more near
and barely
through time
preternatural disasters
left fading
wrinkled scars
it was rough
i tell ya
and they marvel
loudly through
quiet nods
and i
out the window

via peter dewolfe

Pouring Rain

We could sit by and watch history repeat itself ,
or feed off the fruits of the labor of someone else,
and time’s a reminder that there are  things you just can’t avoid;
It tells me I’m older than I was the day before.

A man breaks his back holding signs to change how we live
as I sit inside and look out, as I’ve got nothing to give.

We could wait on the inside and fight for a sunny day,
or get our heels wet as we run the the pouring rain.

Rossetti: Finding an Oasis in the Midst of a Harsh Reality

Finally, this paper doesn’t seem so hard anymore. I feel like I’ve got a good start.


Newspaper headlines announce catastrophes, whole countries living in fear, social stress and tension, crime rates, political corruption, the agonizing state if the economy, international bomb threats, and the death of soldiers and civilians on a daily basis. The media goes to all lengths to make sure that everyone knows all about the terrible things that happen in the world and the state of chaos that plagues society. Surrounded with this kind of reality, one finds the task of obtaining peace and contentment understandably difficult. Many people search for relief by pursuing material objects and indulging impulsive desires. However, the most lasting and fulfilling releases from a cruel reality are those found in things that are not material, things that are intrinsic anchors of the heart. Dante Gabriel Rossetti understood this and tries to offer this truth to others in his poem, “Silent Noon.”


The world needs more of this:

 Mr. Hosler:  I know this source came up as a 4% plagarism on when I submitted my paper. Don’tworry about it. This is my own blog. So… don’t let that effect my grade! :]

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E.E. Cummings

skies may be blue;yes
(when gone are hail and sleet and snow)
but bluer than my darling’s eyes,
spring skies are no

hearts may be true;yes
(by night or day in joy or woe)
but truer than your lover’s is,
hearts do not grow

nows may be new;yes
(as new as april’s first hello)
but new as this our thousandth kiss,
no now is so




(for those of you new to Cumming’s writing, there are no typos. only the way he intended it to look and flow.)

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