My Shield

My Shield

A dark room, 

a chair beneath me, I assume.

Then a harsh, blinding flash—

a glaring bare bulb

reflecting off its silver globe

and directly into my eyes.

I slam them shut

and tilt my head down.

But next, a sudden shutdown 

to dark.

The flash in my retina dances,

then dims back to blackness.

Open the eyes, head back up.

Comfortable darkness.

Then it blazes back, brighter still.

Even closed, my eyes sting

against the jarring flash.

My eyelids press down harder,

the tiny muscles clenched against

my teary, shining cheekbones. 

Then, a hand. The hand

that first molded light into photons,

that first flicked fire to life,

that hand shields me, 

but only for an instant.

It reaches away, comes back.

The glaring light shudders, 

then darkens, 

and becomes a soft amber glow, 

filtered finally by 

a heavy, bronze garment

still being straightened over the bulb

by that hand, now joined by His other. 

Once a blinding blaze,

now only a gentle gleam— 

a radiance even—

illuminating His hands,

full of love, 

casting fingertip shadows 

on the dust-colored walls

of my heart. 

Sallie Mae, a poem

For any college graduate who's ever paid off ol' Sallie. You'll know where I'm coming from.



Sallie Mae, a poem

She landed, softly,

on the supple, white 

flesh of my thigh,

while I looked the other way,

blinded by a new freedom.

And as I looked on, 

she glanced around, 

checking that we were alone.

Then, her lance plunged into

 my soft, succulent skin.

I snapped back, smacked. 

But too late. 

She kicked off, 

swayed a bit, 

and buzzed off 

into the darkness, 

drunk on my blood.

Looking In, Looking Out

The Difference in Writing Fiction and Poetry

One of the classes I lead is a creative writing class, mostly focused on the development of strong, realistic fiction writing. This presents a few challenges to me, the largest of which is that I tend to write far more poetry than fiction myself. Not that I never throw down a good short story now and then, but poetry is much closer to the front of my compositional mind.

I tried and failed to explain this to my students, who - firstly - could not possibly fathom why anyone would ever consider writing poetry when not required to. Secondly, though, many of them didn't see how free verse poetry differs much from fiction writing. "It's just put into lines and stanzas," they said.

Well, no it isn't.

It's not just a completely different genre. It's a totally different view of the world, and a uniquely singular way of reporting it to the reader.

Writing fiction is about telling stories, and about looking into houses. It is about peeking into people’s lives, noticing the unnoticed, the small details that can make the fictitious realistic. The nervous swishing of a hand through hair, a man pouring his coffee in the kitchen, the fragile hips of an old dog swaying painfully as she ambles to the door – these are the things that often go unnoticed by us as we swing our sickles through the fields of life. 

But these are the moments that a fiction writer must catch and point out, saying to the reader, “See, I bet you would have missed that, wouldn’t you?” Well, here it is, lying truthfully on the page, adding that little bit of life that brings a story from being just a series of events, to being an episode of existence.  

Poetry is quite the opposite. If story telling is about looking in, then poetry is looking out. Poetry is gazing outward from your own window and telling the truth – the real truth – about what is there. In poetry, we make no efforts to hide reality, however simple or brutal it may be. 

What is mysterious, what is mortal, what is funny, what is too difficult or perhaps too obvious to think about – these are the forgotten and ignored horses that poets hitch to the front of the team. In this way, poetry and fiction share a heart – the heart of bringing the overlooked to the forefront of the readers’ attention.

I can only hope to show my students this, and to guide them to experience it for themselves.

Surviving wintertime

Surviving wintertime

is like trying to

strangle a porcupine.

Those beetle eyes

stare into yours, determined.

Does it even have a neck?

you think, as you try to

end this terrible encounter.

Its long quills stab at your chest,

icy needles piercing your

thin nylon jacket.

And when you finally give up

and fling the spiky critter to the ground,

you will look down at your

unfeeling fingertips,

dripping your happiness

into the now steaming snow.