1. This is a piece created by my dear sister Amy Sullivan and I wrote it in congruence with the poem I posted below, enjoy.

  2. Passing Vessels

    We are as passing vessels in the night,

    crossing in similar lines through

     heavy air on aged skin and weathered sails.

    Absently we drift watching for stormy gales,

    ignorant of the threat, lurking

    within shifting seas - a dance of arms swinging,

    unsteady feet stepping back and forth

    on sturdy floors, on a wavering world:

    in this dance we’ve have been hurled

    and stay curled,

    for there we lay in parallel shapes.

    Looking past the other to the water, I ask,

    “Why have you come passing vessel?”

    The answer is buried,

     like a capsule.

    My mourning comes with your passing,

    like salt it sticks to our

    lips, skin, and hair;

    here, where water never completes its purpose.

    How is it that you pass on the surface

    of the sea

    unnoticed and unmoved?

    If only you took notice on this course,

    your fellow traveler and all you lack;

    so passing vessel can you turn your back

    on the sinking ship you leave behind?

    Will you mourn this passing,

    or be so kind

    as to carry me from this fateful bind.

  3. Home

    In you is home

    where I come for safety,

    and fears must leave me

    and the truth, I let it be.

    In you are four walls,

    in which reside my

    body, soul, and mind

     completely whole.

    In you is shelter

    giving me kindness

    from the weather,

    altogether, untarnished.   

    In you is foundation

    to keep my ground

    when the earth is shaking,

    and I stop thinking.

    In you is home, a place

    where I cannot get lost

    within myself,

    where I stand secure,


    In you is home.

  4. Sounds

    I’m in love with the summer sounds,

    the chattering of children resounds

    through the screen of the window pressed open;

    I never mistake the songs of birds

    or the feel of the first spring breeze,

    I hear the sounds of summer driving,

    driving past people, places, and pieces -

    pieces of earth scattered and shattered

    pieces of earth I wish to mend

    so I walk to the sounds of summer

    the sounds I love touching you touching me

  5. "When I have fears that I may cease to be
    Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
    Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
    Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
    When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
    Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
    And think that I may never live to trace
    Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
    And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
    That I shall never look upon thee more,
    Never have relish in the faery power
    Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
    Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
    Till love and fame to nothingness do sink."
    John Keats
  6. My small thoughts on complex, layered topic.

    Whatever your thoughts on this issue of marriage equality and sin, God extends the courtesy of choice out of love. He always has. How can we as Christians then do any more or less then He? Secondly, if again you believe that marriage is a sacred covenant between a man and a woman that is profoundly spiritual, that is ordained by God alone, then from this perspective it is logical and Biblical to assume He does not need your help to keep it sacred. Can a law of human kind change Him or what He will look on as legitimate? This is not a dialogue. I do not want to debate, especially via facebook or tumblr, but rather monologue to stimulate critical thinking. At the end of the day what is your job as a Christian? It is certainly not to demand that others live the way you do, especially if they do not believe as you do. What did Christ talk about the most? The Gospel. He spoke most of binding the broken hearted and helping the poor, widows, and orphans. Why waste time, energy, and breath (and in my opinion dignity) on protesting marriage equality when there are millions of men, women, and children trafficked, starving, impoverished, and lost who are in need of that time, energy, and breath. You must know dear reader that I do not say this out of apathy or “compromise.” I do not make these statements flippantly or spitefully, but rather as someone who has given much thought to this topic. Know that by imposing your views on others politically you change very little, and may close yourself off to some beautiful friendships that could have impact on their lives and yours whatever their sexuality may be. Be mindful of your words they can either destroy or heal. You get to choose. 

  7. "Do not stand at my grave and weep
    I am not there. I do not sleep.
    I am a thousand winds that blow.
    I am the diamond glints on snow.
    I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
    I am the gentle autumn rain.
    When you awaken in the morning’s hush
    I am the swift uplifting rush
    Of quiet birds in circled flight.
    I am the soft stars that shine at night.
    Do not stand at my grave and cry;
    I am not there. I did not die"
    Mary Elizabeth Frye
  8. "

    I want you to know
    one thing.

    You know how this is:
    if I look
    at the crystal moon, at the red branch
    of the slow autumn at my window,
    if I touch
    near the fire
    the impalpable ash
    or the wrinkled body of the log,
    everything carries me to you,
    as if everything that exists,
    aromas, light, metals,
    were little boats
    that sail
    toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

    Well, now,
    if little by little you stop loving me
    I shall stop loving you little by little.

    If suddenly
    you forget me
    do not look for me,
    for I shall already have forgotten you.

    If you think it long and mad,
    the wind of banners
    that passes through my life,
    and you decide
    to leave me at the shore
    of the heart where I have roots,
    that on that day,
    at that hour,
    I shall lift my arms
    and my roots will set off
    to seek another land.

    if each day,
    each hour,
    you feel that you are destined for me
    with implacable sweetness,
    if each day a flower
    climbs up to your lips to seek me,
    ah my love, ah my own,
    in me all that fire is repeated,
    in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
    my love feeds on your love, beloved,
    and as long as you live it will be in your arms
    without leaving mine.

    Pablo Neruda
  9. Las Medias Rojas

    By Emilia Pardo Bazan - translated into English and turned into a poem by a girl named Erin, who portrayed this short story beautifully.

    Ildara returned to the house carrying
    firewood and struggling through the door.
    her Uncle Clodio heard her,
    but he didn’t look up from his cigar.
    the embers burned a hole
    through the cloud of smoke that surrounded him.
    Ildara prepared dinner for him -
    a display of dry beans
    and green water - the best she
    could do as each day
    her dream died. as she served him,
    he watched her skirt and saw stockings
    the color of red blood.

    "oh Ildara!" he lifted her skirt
    and exposed her red lips.
    "father!" she thrust her skirt down.
    "now i buy you stockings
    like the sister of a priest? i cannot
    afford more land, more food,
    new shoes, dreams, nothing,” he said.

    her eyes were like polished glass
    and, by the light of his burning cigar,
    Uncle Clodio saw her frightened beauty.
    she insisted that she did not steal
    money for the stockings; she did not expect him
    to pay for such luxuries.
    he raised his arm to her face.

    she protected her face and did not think
    of reality but of her dream.
    she remembered her cousin Mariola,
    who was scarred by her father’s control
    and her mother’s cowardice.

    Ildara wanted to be free. she dreamt
    of traveling on a boat to a foreign
    land where women were equal
    to men: where women had control
    of their lives.

    she dreamt this. but reality came.

    Uncle Clodio’s fist hit Ildara’s head,
    then her face. the stars
    that once twinkled in her eyes
    now circled her head as she lost
    sight in her right eye.
    he broke her nose with a quick blow
    and bruised her cheeks the color
    of her black hair.

    he thought of killing her,
    but then he would be alone.
    so he stopped as he knocked
    a pearl from her mouth.

    when the doctor came, he examined her,
    said that she would not be able to see
    through her eye again, and left,
    without a word to her.

    Ildara laid on the floor,
    curled into a ball,
    not screaming but weeping.
    she thought of the boat,
    knew that she was condemned
    because the freedom land
    only accepted women with
    bright eyes and complete denture

  10. "I think I’ll never see a poem as lovely as a tree ,a tree whose hungry mouth is prest against the earths sweet flowing breast, a tree that looks at God all day, and lifts her leafy arms to pray. A tree that may in summer wear a nest of robins in her hair, upon whose bosom snow has lain, who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree."
    W.E. Smith

About me

A place for my poems, favorite quotes and such.