The Future: A Poem

I love poetry. Somehow, it allows you to say just what you want to say and nothing more.

The Future

Would that you could see the future,

What would it be that you’d see?

A bright winter day half a year away,

Your unborn child,

Aged ten,

Up in a tree?


Would that you could see the future,

Would you cheer it or would it cause groans?

Would you feel the bliss of your betrothed’s impassioned  kiss

Or cry at the year’s-later scene

When  it was cancer’s choice,

Not hers,

To leave you alone?


Would that you could see the future,

Would your family be the one you dream of,

As if they were conjured from your mind one lonely night,

Brought to life in that moment by your very sight?

Or is family something we build piece by piece,

And the most important piece is love?


Would that you could see the future,

Your future self would say,

“Of course this is the future.

How could it have turned out any other way?”


Would that you could see the future,

Your wife and child smiling back.

“We’re waiting for you in the future, dear.

Confidence that you’ll get here?

Oh, honey, for such confidence we do not lack.

Timmy turns ten this Sunday.

He’s excited for the tree house you’ll build.

Meanwhile, your book just found a bestseller list.

Your publisher is absolutely thrilled.”


This last one is the future I see,

Beautiful yet incomplete.

The particulars and minutia have yet to set themselves.

But, as far as I’m concerned,

It can’t be beat.


I say that not knowing the truth

Of the future that will stand in its place;

Whether its hallmark will be

A warm southern breeze

Or an Alaskan night cold as ice.

No one can know the future.

Would that you could.

It comes down to chance and choice.

But I hope and pray that the true future day

Will somehow be

Just as nice.












Prose From A Grandson…

With editing in full effect, I thought, If someone was just getting to know me (that’s you, dear reader/follower), what would I tell them was the accomplishment I am proudest of to this point? Other than helping to raise my siblings, that is.  The answer’s easy. My poetry book.

I wrote it just before my grandfather, or Papa, passed. It was the last book he ever read. I hope it’s one into which you’ll enjoy jumping.

If you like what you see here or in those pages, do be sure to follow this blog! I am honored that you take the time to check in here!

The Blank Page

There is nothing scarier than the blank page. It can bring on paralyzing fear. And it is a writer’s worst.

“That page is blank. What if it stays blank forever?” Believe it or not, some writers do worry about stuff like this. Most, actually.

For me, the beginning of any piece is its toughest portion (aside from editing, which is a whole other ball game entirely). For only with a proper start will work flourish the way it’s supposed to, in the end.

My go-to when I can’t seem to overcome that endless expanse of white: A poem. Write a poem. Let the wonder of language, its simplicity, complexity, its coarse edges, its smooth underbelly calling for a good vocal rub–let them all dance in concert on your ready tongue. Accept what the Gods of Poetry give you. Throw nothing back. What’s meant to come will come. That’s what I’m going to do, now.

A poem, written without concern for what it shall become, and entitled An Endless Expanse Of White.


I come awake to a

Snow-sky gray

Sweet Christmas Day,

Find the presents waiting.

As a child my night

 Drifted away right,

A moment fading from sight,

Replaced by this wonderful morn

Yet to be warm with hot chocolate and cheer,

Nor is it light,

Though the freshly fallen snow shimmers the immediate vicinity.

So that all is clear and bright.

That endless expanse of white.