My Poetry


He will always be home. The smell of that apple-scented candle lingering through the vents of the house Shoes with muddy tongues lined up by the front door Red, hot stove burners alive on Sunday mornings Scratches and greasy fingerprints cluttering the worn porcelain bowls Battered pillows covered in drool and old make up Wrinkled… Continue reading Residency.

My Poetry


Driving pass the graveyard.   Squinting through the window, gazing into the cemetery.   Dying to see if I can see any free spirits dancing around their graves.   But all I seem to see is my own reflection.