An Examination of Death – A Poem

Here is the next of this series of forgotten poems from 2000 – 2005. I used to use a lot more structure in my poetry and didn’t actually start experimenting with avant garde/free verse until I was in college.

At the end of the poem I decided to add a final stanza to provide closure to the narrative and try to make sense of the story being told.



An Examination Of Death

Marybeth died at 65
Too bad her children aren’t still alive
No one was there to plant the tree
On top of her mound to set her free

Harold passed at only 7
Told his mama he was going to heaven
Didn’t hear the fights night and day
Or the shot fired when Mama got in the way

Tommy was gone in ’44
Never had been to war before
When his bride received the news
Next they found her in a noose

Kristy was only 18 years old
When her poor mama was told
She took her life one sunny day
Leapt from the building – cross the way

Daisy was a carefree girl
Loved her Johnny’s special lure
Watched him die before her eyes
At the hands of paradise

All the world can find its fate
Then associate and relate
With every death comes less time
All to end this awful rhyme

Daisy stands by Marybeth’s stone
Knowing they both were together alone
She kneels down to plant a seed
So finally her soul, from pain, is freed


Thank you for taking the time to read these today! Have you ever found any of your old writing? What did you think of it? What do you think of this one? I’d love to hear in the comments!

If you’d like to see more of my forgotten poetry, please like, comment, and/or share this post. It helps me know what content my readers are most interested in seeing, so I can better know what to share here.


Untitled Poems 1 – 4

Yesterday, I began sorting boxes my parents delivered over a year ago after Jacob and I moved into the house. One of these boxes was a mix of school papers, including some of my earliest poetry. These are the poems I’d forgotten about.

Based on the folder, they were written sometime between 2000 and 2005, so I was between ages 10 and 16. As I go through these some will be hilarious and worth keeping for that reason alone. Some are insights into the mind of an adolescent alive during that time period and the observations they chose to write down.

I’m started with a series of four untitled poems, four lines each. Now, enjoy some childish, painful forced rhyme.


Poem 1

Sometimes I’m jealous
Of those who win
All the things
That might have been


Poem 2

We tend to love
What time we waste
The past is delicious;
Time? An acquired taste.


Poem 3

Oh Glory Be! In times we say
As all hope drifts far away
It is the clouded sea she took
And my heart – a little brook


Poem 4

Sometimes the world just passes by
A shock so sudden we can’t cry
With each candle on birthday cake
Comes regret with decisions we make


Thank you for taking the time to read these today! Without you these posts don’t carry the same meaning. Have you ever found any of your old writing? What did you think of it? What do you think of these? I’d love to hear in the comments!

If you’d like to see more of my forgotten poetry, please like, comment, and/or share this post. It helps me know what content my readers are most interested in seeing, so I can better know what to share here.

New Short Story: The Vacant House

Photo by Sidney See on Unsplash.com

Up now on Coffee House Writers is my short story The Vacant House.

This is an experimental piece I’ve played around with since its first draft in 2015. Since then it morphed into what it is now and I decided that it was time to throw it out into the world for some feedback. My editor didn’t have much to provide, so maybe others can help?

The initial idea:

How can I tell a story from the perspective of something that would normally not be given the benefit of thought and perception?

How would a house try to communicate with its occupants?

I had to make certain decisions that frustrated me, such as the house being able to read and understand English. This introduced a supernatural element that, while I am already pushing things by talking about a house capable of thought and perception, seemed a bit too farfetched.

Another thing that frustrated me about this piece: the house’s existential crisis.

What are your thoughts on the piece? Do you have feedback?

Thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and I hope you have a wonderful rest of your day!

If you enjoy my work, please take a moment to like, share, and/or leave a comment. This helps me know what y’all are most interested in seeing and how I can best engage. Without you, these letters mean nothing -– your brain assembles them in a way that generates meaning and decodes the way my brain encoded this information as I typed this out. It’s viewable on brain imaging studies on language processing!

Stuck In Traffic: A Short Story

Content Warning: This story discusses human trafficking and pedophilia. Reader discretion is advised.

Photo by Tim Tebow Foundation on Unsplash

Post Street–
Chinese New Year Parade –
The traffic devours the patience of every San Francisco driver. A choir of horns blasts the pedestrians from the sidewalks as the barricades teeter in place.

An hour and a half after the cab ride began, fire crackers still echo off the buildings while drivers grapple for every opening in the sea of exhaust fumes, foot traffic, and non-motor vehicles. The Little Darling’s Peep Show’s lights blink in contrast to the gated and locked businesses wrapping themselves up against the cool Pacific air.

“I’ll get out here.” The suit commands, opening the door into screaming curses while his fare settles before the door slams shut. He smirks as he reaches the sidewalk – he found her.

She stands at the corner waiting; peahen struts in her heels, suit, and buttercream silk blouse. The man glances at a business card from his pocket, then returns it. He found Her.

Her face never fabricates a smile for him, but she leads him past the iron gate into what looks like an old hotel. She opens a door to an office with a black leather lounger where she motions for him to sit.

“Who gave you my card?” Her lips fall into a pout as she sits on the large oak desk, averting her eyes from his face; playing with her manicured nails.

“I’m looking for a young woman.” He states without answering. “Thin. No stretch marks. Underdeveloped. Small.” He smiles and leans back, crossing his hands over his stomach.

The woman nods, then picks up her phone from the desk, texting someone. A knock at the door reveals a tiny late-adolescent with deep umber hair and fawn skin of no more than five feet tall in heels and a shimmering club dress.

“She will do.” The man stands, then turning toward the desk pulls a wad of cash from a money clip. “Thank you.”

The door slams, leaving the woman alone in the room, vomiting into a trash can. A hidden door in the wall opens, revealing a man with a cloud of hair wafting from his scalp. “Not a fan of this one?”

“I hate his kind.” She snarls, wiping her mouth. “And I hate tiny women.”

The white haired man sprawls on the lounger and laughs. “Why? Men are attracted to small, delicate, vulnerable creatures. It’s instinctual.”

“They’re attracted to them because they’re pedophiles.” She spits.

“Then why hate the women?” The man sits up and cocks his head. “You’re jealous,” he mocks. Her eyebrows attempt to narrow in response; instead only her mouth frowns. “Men are allowed to like what they like. Besides, you’re just doing your job.” Standing, he walks over, wrapping his arms around her shoulders from behind, kissing her neck. “Try not to hate yourself because you’re not one of them anymore.”

Closing her eyes, she sees herself grab the letter opener from the pen cup and stab him in the neck. His eyes bulge out as red arterial blood pulses out onto the Persian rug adorning the floor, ruining her silk shirt he bought not long ago. He collapses onto the desk as she grabs his keys to the safe in the hidden room, grabbing enough of the cash to be free of him forever. Running down the old steps and out of the building into the chaos of San Francisco during Chinese New Year.

He cups her breasts from behind as she opens her eyes. “Where is the money he handed you?” He whispers in her ear.

She hands him the roll of hundreds over her shoulder, then stands, re-buttoning her blouse.

“Good work.” He oozes as she approaches the door.

The sounds in the hallway follow her; remind her; haunt her as she walks down the steps, wondering if now is the time to step outside.


If you found yourself moved, please consider liking, commenting, and/or sharing it with others. Truly, I am grateful for the time you spent reading my work. While you’re here, if you want to learn more about what you can do to help those impacted by human trafficking, or if you are impacted by human trafficking please check out http://humantraffickinghotline.org/.

If you are in need of immediate help and are located in the United States please call 1 (888) 373-7888 or text 233733 (Text “HELP” or “INFO”) 24/7/365