Thank you to Christopher Moore for publishing two of my poems in The Misfit Quill.

Ceramic Birds

Ceramic birds, never struggling to disentangle

their ponderous wings from that

which truly does not matter.

Why can they not see

those things from which

they should extricate themselves?

The minutiae, heavy,

reminiscent of dead weight.

The atmosphere thickened with useless trivia,

like an old, old morning paper.

Flying low, barely above a sea of indifference,

bowed down by that which,

if put into perspective,

would no longer plague their plumage.

Getting Knackered

Feeling as Atlas who carried the world,

and one misstep would mean a painful free fall for all.

When does the sun grows weary of the light that saps it?

A restless soul, ever weary, of traveling and seeing beauty?

Does the night grow weary of the dark as it runs down?

Does the heart grow weary of hope?

How do we embrace the new without diminishing the old?

The mischievous jeer 

of those who tell me

that the solution 

is only a dream, a hope , a wish,

professed by they themselves, 

also weary and bone-tired,

when the truth and lies attack in tandem.