Recognized Work:
Poem
A poem is a way to speak,
to be heard,
and be seen.
A poem has rhyme,
has rhythm, and
is counted by meters and stanzas.
A poem is raw like a beat of the heart.
A poem is full of meaning just as much as it
is metaphors.
A poem is musical and vivid,
A live concert of words for
All who seek it out.
A poem makes you feel
and feels itself.
A poem has eyes and voice
A poem is never finished
seen through imagery and simile.
Neve truly ending
the poem is me.
Time Flies
Time sure flies
before you know it, it slips on by
Monday turns to Friday
2019 to 2024
Time sure flies
Poem and Time Flies Recognized by the Hood County Library as contest winners during National Poetry Month 2024
Sample Poems:
This Thing I have is Real
“So, I heard you have a mental illness?
Oh, it’s only anxiety and depression!?
That’s not disorder! That’s just melancholy!
Get out of your head! Grow a pair! Be a man!
None of its real! Stop making a big
deal. . .”
If you’ve said these words; if you’re this
person, keep in mind everyone is trying to
survive life.
You may not get it. You may not understand, but please don’t discredit, downgrade, be-
little, disregard, or undermine this very real
thing I have.
Don’t make the last thing
You ever say to me be
“Stop making a big
Deal. . .”
Outside
Inside
I am safe.
Outside
I am unsure.
Doubts cloud my mind
worries hitting me like heavy rain
Inside
I am alone.
Outside
there are many.
Outside
Is uncertainty!
but,
Inside
Like someone lost at sea
it is lonely for me.
Poet Notes:
These two poems give a brief overview of what to expect out of my work. I am relatively intropective and speak on my own emotions and general emotions I know others that live similar lives cope with on a daily basis. This Thing I have is Real is an open dialogue and warning to the importance of mental health awareness while Outside is the conflicting emotions that anxiety and depression cause in regards to leaving a safe space versus adventuring out to new places.
Short Story Excerpts:
The Voiceless
As I crouched to get a better look Ford, my copper-colored mutt and trusted guard, growled beside me. Behind me a shaky hand retreated as I glanced back to see Geralt Adam, Commander of the Guard, a stout man with a burly red mustache and bald head. Although heightened at the moment, he wore the face I was often met with. Most did not know how to interact with me. I turned to face him. Ford rose to all fours forcing his big head between us.
“I understand your grieving . . . but I an obligation to investi–”
I shot my forearm forward, initiating Ford to let out a bark. The nerve– not only was I not directly informed of my father’s death, but now Geralt was attempting to disregard me. My chambermaid Dillon, a young woman close to my age with scattered freckles on pale skin and muddied red hair, delivered the news of my father to me.
“Sorry to interrupt your writing Master James,” she started. “I’m sorry to say your father’s dead. He’s in the garden, they say. The House is in chaos because of it but I wanted to make sure you knew. My condolences.”
Dillion and I were not friends, but we were friendly due to her being my personal chambermaid and having to spend time with me. If it wasn’t a part of her job, she likely would never have talked to me, much like everyone else, but regardless, in this moment, especially, I was glad for her because the likely hood of anyone else informing me was seldom.
My father’s death made me Lord of House Eadmund as his sole heir, so the duty of determining the cause of death, his death, is mine. I am not surprised that this notion is not being considered as I have never been viewed as a suitable heir since birth. Once the wet nurses determined the lack of crying was something they could not remedy, I was forever seen as damaged. The muscles used to activate the vocal cords never fully developed; hence the mock title spoken behind my back James ‘The Voiceless.’ With Ford’s interjection, I had Geralt’s undivided attention. I firmly placed my index finger on my chest, dramatically enough for him not to see.
Author’s Note:
This is a small portion of my fantasy short story Voiceless which follows James ‘The Voiceless’ as the young man is trusted into lordship after the unexpected death of his lord father James ‘The Strong.’ If you enjoy fantasy but also whodoneit’s this story is for you as the mute James, along with his trusted dog Ford solve the mystery of the late lord’s death and also find strength in their lack of voice.
The Last Storyteller
“Why do you wear the sky around your neck Grandpa B?” I asked my grandfather once.
He chuckled pulling the blue handkerchief from his neck, “This, Drogo, is the color blue. It is the color of the sky, but it is not the sky itself, see my eyes are also blue.” Grandpa B widened his eyes and wiggled his bushy eyebrows to show off his sky-colored eyes.” But I love that that is what it made you think of. That’s why I choose to still wear color even now when we are told not to wear such things.”
“Blue. Hmm, my eyes are blue then too. . . But why are we not supposed to wear colors Grandpa B, is color bad?”
“No Drogo, color isn’t bad. Is the sky bad?”
I laugh, scrunching my nose, “No! The sky is beautiful, and it helps us see—And its home to the birds—Oh and the clouds—Oh and then–”
My Grandpa hugs me and laughs halting my excited ramblings about the sky, “Exactly Drogo, yes! The sky is beautiful and not bad it should excite you, so why not express your admiration for the sky for wearing blue.” He then tied the handkerchief around my neck. It instantly stood out over my small Kayaan gray uniform. I smiled tugging at my new accessory before hugging him back tighter.
As soon as I got home from Grandpa’s though my Father yanked it off my neck furiously stating it wasn’t dress code and was too expressive. I tried to explain to him it was the color of the sky and how the sky wasn’t bad but he just shoosed me. I later found the handkerchief in the trash and hid it in my room for safe keeping knowing better not to show my precious sky scarf, though I still did not understand why. That was also the last time I ever got to visit my Grandfather alone, yet another thing I did not understand why.
Author’s Note:
The Last Storyteller follows a young halfling boy in a world called Kayaa as he deals with the passing of his Granfather. Kayaa is a place where expression is an outlawed thing of the past. As seen in the above excerpt, even colorful clothing is unheard of. This is a short story about the power of questions and storytelling.
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