Sacred Sunday

It was never about the sun, those early mornings on the sand. Every Sunday, the three of us would meet there in the quiet hours before the tourists and locals set up their tanning stations. The beach was our church, in those days. We’d sit in the same spot every week. Talking. Reading. Observing.

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The Snag

There’s an oak snag I’ve passed almost every weekday—a dead tree looming over a landscape of patchy grass and untamed shrubs. It’s been a dramatic sentinel, nobility evident in its posture. When a Family Dollar store popped up to the east of it, casting its cinderblock shadow over the “for sale” sign edging the sidewalk of the vacant lot, I knew it was just a matter of time before the snag was cut down. I thought to capture the snag on “film” before that happened but, every morning, in my rush to get to where I was going, I passed the snag. “Tomorrow,” I whispered to myself.

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Confessions

During the writing of the poems that comprise illusions and misdemeanors, and during the whole editing and production process, I thought I’d planned for everything that goes into publishing a book of poetry.

I didn’t.

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Stigma

I wrote this poem at three-o’clock in the morning, maybe six or seven months ago, while my heart was trying to pound its way out of my chest. It was in fight or flight mode, fueled by the adrenaline rush of a panic attack that awakened me from my slumber. I don’t know why the first place I go to calm myself is the bathroom, but that’s where I found myself. Writing the poem helped me focus on something other than my heart.

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Castle Rock

Edinburgh Castle, November 2015

A cold, rainy day…perfect for this particular exploration. Perched high above the city, it was easy to imagine the monarchs of old keeping watch over their subjects. This fortress was built to endure, its walls as strong as the spirit of the Scots. 

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The Tree

November 2015. All seemed dark until I saw the tree. It was in the back of Princes Street Gardens, lining the walking path behind the Christmas market. Until I saw the tree, I felt alone. Sad. Hopeless. The world was bleak, and the wave of impending doom seemed inescapable, even in Edinburgh. Hate. Fear. Bombs. Death. Paris. Brussels. Russian jets. Donald Trump. Uncle Jerry. Pain.  Loss. Loneliness. Age. 

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