Flowers, rocks, pinecones, feathers: the sweetest gifts from a little hand.

My first and only literary success

Sweet nothings for no one.

There's still much to see.

On the cusp of winter, towards Autumn’s end, I find myself, unprepared. My stores are not full. My work is not done. But still, without...

Ambush is intimate. What runs through your mind before the thunder?

A poem for Mondays and all the dread they inspire.

A poem for my wife.

High above a valley on a cool, November day, I saw the clouds foreboding, as they drew her breath away. The forest down below, her colors...

Andersonville was a prisoner of war camp in the Civil War where captive Union soldiers endured numerous atrocities.

Maybe I should carve it, into this wooden bar. Or maybe I should draw it, on the hood of a dusty car. With a sharpie I could spell, in...

I went walking one day, alone in the wood, noting how it was neither bad nor good, and came upon a little creek there flowing into the...

There it stands beside the road kudzu clad and full of mold, rusted nails and twisted beams; the assemblage of a broken dream. Warped and...

I go walking sometimes with a poem in my pocket. I like to think I’ll work on it later and sometimes, I do; but usually I forget, until...